Searching for Rescue

searching for rescue redwood coast rescue, book 1 Tonya Burrows Copyright © 2023 by Tonya Burrows All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Created with Vellum contents I. Lost Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 II. Found Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Epilogue Also by Tonya Burrows part one lost “Lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for.” Clarence Darrow chapter one Zak Hendricks wasn’t drunk enough for this shit. He glared at his former best friend across the scuffed bar and knocked back another shot of Jameson. His fourth of the night. At this bar. He washed it down with a glug from his second beer. Yeah, still not drunk enough to deal with Sheriff Ash Rawlings’ holier-than-thou attitude. “Whaddya gonna do, Ashley?” He leaned on Ash’s full first name because he knew it bugged the guy, then signaled the bartender that he was ready for another shot. He’d told her to keep them coming until he was wobbling on his stool. Then maybe he’d be able to sleep tonight. “Arrest me for having a drink? I’m over a decade past the legal age. And I seem to remember you used to drink with Donovan and me long before we were legal. You used to be fun.” A muscle twitched under Ash’s neatly trimmed beard. He hated being reminded of his wayward youth, so Zak delighted in mentioning it every chance he got. “That was a long time ago, Zak. I grew up.” “And now you’re the big, bad Sheriff of Lost County. The fun police.” “What you’ve been doing tonight is nowhere in the neighborhood of fun. I could arrest you for assault, destruction of private property, disturbing the peace… take your pick. You’ve had a busy night.” Ash scowled and held up a hand, stopping the bartender from pouring another shot. “He’s done, Rose.” “Not if he still has money, Sheriff. He’s single-handedly keeping the lights on around here.” Rose Galasso put a hand on her slim hip, and her cropped Mad Dog Pub T-shirt rode up to show a glimpse of a tattoo on her ribs. Momentarily distracted from the conversation by the colorful ink, Zak wondered what the tattoo was and just how much skin it covered… As fast as the spark of interest flared, it fizzled. Rose was a beautiful woman with breasts that tested the limits of her shirt, long black hair, and snapping blue eyes—but he only needed one lover in his life, and her name was Whiskey. Who could’ve guessed his sex drive was in the leg he left back in Afghanistan? Goddammit, he wanted another shot. “Rose, my drink?” Ash turned that sanctimonious glare on her. “Don’t do it. I’ll have your liquor license stripped for over-serving.” “Asshole,” Rose muttered, but set the bottle of Jameson down and walked away. “This is bullshit. I didn’t start that fight at the brewery.” Zak shoved to his feet. The room tilted, the floor rolling under him. He stumbled sideways, and the toe of his fucking prosthetic leg caught on his stool. He crashed into a nearby table, sending a trio of backpackers scurrying to get out of the way. Glasses shattered; beer spilled. His head cracked against the floor as he landed, and his vision dimmed for a second, but he didn’t feel any pain through the haze of alcohol and rage. The white-hot, all-consuming rage he couldn’t drink away. Rage at himself. And at Rose for not giving him another drink. And at Ash for trying to leash him. And at his useless fucking metal leg for being useless and metal. And at the men who brought him home broken instead of leaving him in Afghanistan to die a hero. “Jesus,” Ash said softly and reached down to help him. He shoved Ash’s hand out of the way and tried to stand, only to discover his prosthetic was no longer attached. It stood wedged in the footrest between the stool’s legs. Face burning, he pulled himself upright on the table and hopped over to disentangle the prosthetic, but it wouldn’t come loose. With a growl of frustration, he picked up the whole stool, leg and all, and threw it across the bar. It slammed into the wall by the door, and several pictures clattered to the floor. The abrupt movement upset his equilibrium, and he hopped on his one leg to regain his balance before he fell again. Rose stared, and her red-painted lips opened in a little O of surprise. The backpackers snickered. “A one-legged man hops into a bar…” one of them said, and the snickers turned to laughter. He snapped up a beer mug from the nearest table and threw it at them. “Shut the fuck up!” Ash grabbed his arm in a vise grip. “Enough. You’re going home.” He raised an eyebrow at Rose. “Unless you want to press charges for destruction of property?” After a second, she closed her mouth and shook her head. “It’s fine. Just get him out of here.” Ash sighed, and all but carried Zak out. When he stopped to untangle the prosthetic leg from the stool, Zak snagged the bottle of Jameson still on the bar and took a long drink. “Goddammit.” Ash yanked it out of his hand, gave it to Rose, and then muscled him out the door. The July night was brisk, the air heavy with a