Rescue Team by Candace Calvert

the driveway’s trailing rosemary hedge without success, then stood upright again and caught a glimpse of her landlord’s window a few yards away. Theproperty’s main house was gabled and built of hill country limestone with hunter-green trim, a steep metal roof, and multipaned windows throwing light into the darkness. A home completely foreign with its elk-antler chandelier and cactus door wreath, yet still so achingly warm with life and love. Family.
    She stood on tiptoe to peer farther. Her landlord and his wife, their grown children, and grandchildren, too. Laughing, putting something into the oven while fending off an exuberant springer spaniel. Hugging. She caught a glimpse of a young boy. Then a toddler girl lifted onto her grandfather’s shoulders.
    Kate stiffened, angry with herself. What on earth was she doing? Looking for a cat that couldn’t be bothered to stay put and now peeping? Proving, pathetically, what she already knew: she was on the outside looking in. That would never change.
    She walked back to the guesthouse, thinking of what the debriefing team had suggested today—to do things that felt good. She’d heard that advice before at Alamo Grace Hospital in San Antonio. From her friend, nurse and chaplain Riley Hale. And she’d thought then what she was thinking now. What if nothing did? Would she always be an outsider in a life that . . . never feels good?
    Kate padded into the kitchen, reached for the teakettle. Even if her cat wasn’t going to cooperate, at least the day was nearly over. A run-in with Barrett Lyon and that nightmare debriefing complete with tearful, eulogizing memories of Sunni Sprague. Horrible all round. But she’d survived, and tomorrow started her weekend off and—
    Kate glanced at the oven clock: 9:10. Two hours earlier in California. If she was going to leave a message for her father—and not run the risk of catching him—she’d better do it now. Shesighed, thinking of what she’d said to Wes Tanner in response to his question about her father: “We don’t talk.” She was sure it was something he could never understand, but it worked for Kate. She cleared her throat, waiting for the last ring and the switchover to voice mail so she could leave her generic, cheery message. A final salute to a day that couldn’t have been worse.
    “Kate?”
    Her stomach sank. “Dad—you’re there?”
    “No. I’m here . In Texas. I’d like to see you, Katy.”

M ATT C ALLISON WATCHED HIS DAUGHTER study the lunch menu and wondered if coming to Austin would prove to be a big mistake. Thirty minutes into it, he couldn’t tell for sure. But in her phone message Wednesday, Kate had sounded troubled, sad, her voice completely at odds with her words: “. . . okay . . . fine . . . great.” He’d replayed it half a dozen times, hearing the ache in her voice and the way she’d slipped and said Daddy instead of Dad , then tortured himself with memories of times she’d been hurt and inconsolable. A broken collarbone in soccer. That rainy day her cat, Pookie, was struck and killed by the car. And those awful last weeks with her mother in hospice. So Matt had asked a neighbor to pick up his mail, fired up the GPS, and headed for Interstate 10.
    I’m here now, Katy. Whether you like it or not.
    “Catfish maybe,” she said at last, peering at him with her mother’seyes. Audrey Hepburn eyes. How many times had Juliana heard that comparison? And now Kate was the spitting image of her with that dark hair, sharp chin, and long lashes. The smile, too. When and if it ever happened.
    “Fish?” Matt asked after her brows furrowed at his inattention. “Is that what’s good?”
    She shrugged. “It’s a Shady Grove favorite. Tortilla-fried queso catfish. I haven’t had it, but I love their beef brisket—that’s on a tortilla too. With pickled red onions.” The Hepburn eyes met his. “I had you meet me here instead of my place because you’ve been traveling. I figured