Soldier's Rescue Page 3

  “Thanks, Nick. You, too.”

  As he exited, he turned back. “Lock this door behind me.”

  Control. It wasn’t just the shepherd who had issues. But then she did exactly what he said, and as she did, she smiled.

  It was another fifteen minutes before Gran answered her cell. There were loud voices and music in the background; her grandmother and Isabelle were not at the shelter anymore.

  “I thought you were dropping off my Jeep. Where are you?”

  “We’re at Bogey’s, grabbing a bite and a beer. I figured you’d need some time to—um—I thought maybe that nice statie might give you a ride home.” Gran had a hint of mischief in her voice, and two and two came together to make a sneaky four. Grandmotherly manipulation: strand her granddaughter with a hunk of a state trooper and see what developed.

  “Yeah? Well, he didn’t.” She reddened, hoping her disappointment didn’t register in her voice. “So, you owe me a burger. With the works. And a hard cider or two.” She glanced at the golden. “Looks like I’ll be here pretty late—maybe all night.”

  * * *

  NICK PULLED HIS cruiser into the driveway, killed the engine and sat for a minute, looking at the lights from the living-room windows of his neatly landscaped three-bedroom ranch. He dreaded going inside. Ben’s first soccer game, and he’d missed it. It was all his son had talked about for days; shin guards and footwork, free kicks and headers, strikers and defensemen. The expansion of his vocabulary alone was enough to make Nick endorse his participation.

  Ben wasn’t a very physical kid, at least until now. He talked too much like an adult and spent more time with books and computers than most eight-year-old boys. The idea of him joining a team, mixing it up with other kids, and learning the basics of fair play was reassuring. And Ben had enjoyed sharing his newfound enthusiasm with his dad—recounting what happened at practices and begging for additional sessions in the backyard.

  With his long hours, Nick wasn’t always able to help that way, but had done his best to encourage him. And he had promised to be there for Ben’s first game, cheering him on from the sidelines.

  Then he’d come across the dogs.

  He dragged himself out of the cruiser, locked it up and was met at the front door by a pair of warm brown eyes in a face filled with understanding. His mom stepped back to let him enter and shook her head as he silently removed his service belt and stowed his gun in the lockbox on the top shelf of the entry closet.

  “How is he?” he finally asked as he turned to face her.

  “Hurt. Quiet.” She winced at the misery in his face. “Of all the days to be late, Nick.”

  “I ran into a situation...” He blew out a breath, knowing the best excuse in the world couldn’t cover this failure. After a moment, he squared his shoulders. “Where is he?”

  “In his room. He already finished his homework.”

  Nick paused and looked at his mom. Sarah Stanton’s short hair was fashionably cut, graying in streaks that she augmented with highlights at the salon. She carried a few extra pounds, worked out twice a week and made sure they all ate healthily. She was a listener, a guide and a genuine and caring woman; the epitome of what a grandmother should be. It weighed on him that she had to be more mom than grandmother for another generation of Stanton men. He grieved even more that she seemed to relate to his bright, serious-minded son better than he did.

  “Just talk to him, Nick. Explain. He’ll understand.” She read his anxiety like a book. She always had. “He needs his dad.”

  That came like a punch to the gut, even though he was sure she hadn’t meant it that way. Ben needed his dad all the more because he didn’t have a mother. Not for the last four years.

  His next steps, through the family room and down the hall to his son’s room, were among the hardest he had ever taken. Anxiety kept his shoulders square and his expression taut; it was only on the inside that dread softened him to a slump. Why was it that after four years he still felt like every interaction with his son was some kind of a test?

  He stood in the doorway for a minute, preparing himself. It was a typical kid’s room in most ways: twin bed, posters on the walls, bookcase stuffed with books, rock collection and robot models, and a huge toy box spilling action figures, vehicles and train parts onto the carpet. On the desk near the window were a crystal-growing experiment in progress, a small microscope beside an ever-expanding bug collection and a telescope. The poster on the wall beside the desk was a chart of constellations in the northern hemisphere sky. How many eight-year-olds could tell you where the Pleiades were?

  Ben looked up with a frown and then back at the Tyrannosaurus rex he was assembling. Was that look concentration or disappointment?

  “Hey. How did the game go?” He settled on the bed across from Ben, who sat sideways in the chair at his desk, the half-assembled T. rex skeleton on his lap. Doing something with his hands always seemed to calm him; Nick had seen him rebuild that very dinosaur a dozen times.

  “Okay.”

  “Just okay?” Nick groaned. It was going to be one of those talks where every word he got out of Ben would be like pulling a tooth. “So did you play a position?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which one? Defenseman? Striker? Goalie?”

  “Defense.”

  “Get any good assists in?”

  “No.”

  “Get any good shin bruises?” He looked Ben over with a half grin.

  “No.”

  Silence fell. This was pointless. Nick braced and changed tactics. Best to just come right out with it, a frontal assault of the problem.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t make it, Ben. I had a situation come up, a problem on one of the county roads—” almost as an afterthought he added the rest of it “—with some dogs. I had to take care of—”

  “Dogs?” Ben’s head came up, and he searched his dad’s face with wary interest. “What kind of dogs?”

  “Well, I think they were strays. They were thin and pretty dirty—like they’d been on their own for a while. One got hit by a car and was lying in the middle of the road. I had to stop and pick her up and take her to that new shelter on Curlew Road. It turned out the dog needed a vet.”

  “A hurt dog?”

  “Yeah. She had a broken leg and some bad cuts.”

  “What kind of car hit her?” Ben set the dinosaur back on his desk.

  “I don’t know. I came along later. She was blocking the road, so I had to pick her up and clear the highway. She had lost a lot of blood.”

  “Did you get blood on you?” he asked, scanning Nick’s uniform.

  “I don’t think so.” Nick looked down and then back at Ben, surprised to see new light in his son’s eyes. “I was careful. I covered her with the blanket I carry in the cruiser, and I drove her to the shelter.”

  “’Cause you’re a vet, and you’re supposed to help people and dogs.”

  Nick realized the connection Ben was making and smiled. “I’m a veteran, that’s true. But she needed a veterinarian—an animal doctor.”

  Ben nodded, digesting that and frowning at his mistake. “What color was she?” He transferred to the bed beside Nick. “Was she a big dog, or a little one?”

  “Well, a golden retriever—I think—so, sort of big. The other dog was a German shepherd. He didn’t want anyone to touch his friend, so I had to stare him down to get close enough to help.”

  “Did he try to bite you?” Ben was more fascinated than alarmed.

  “No.” Nick chuckled and ruffled Ben’s hair, surprised by Ben’s desire for every ghoulish detail. There was an eight-year-old boy in there after all. “He and I came to an understanding pretty quick.”

  “So, you took the hurt dog to a hospital? What did they do to her?”

  “Well, it was late and
the other doctor wasn’t available, so I helped the vet do some surgery to fix the dog’s leg and hip.”

  “Like a real doctor does? With blood and everything?”

  “Yeah, like real surgery.”

  “So she’s better now, and she’s going to be fine?”

  “The vet was good and she did her best. But the dog has a ways to go before she’s really well.”

  Ben thought about that for a minute.

  “How long before she gets well?”

  “Well, when a soldier breaks a leg, it sometimes takes months for them to heal and get back to walking. It’s a lot the same for dogs, so at least a couple of months.” He avoided the question of how likely it was that a stray would get the weeks of care and attention she needed to fully recover.

  Ben’s eyes widened.

  “Can we go see her?” Ben was on the very edge of the bed now, his face filled with anticipation. “At the hospital?” When Nick began to shake his head, Ben really poured it on. “Pleeeease, Dad, can we go? It’s a hurt dog.” It was a little late to remember that he had been talking a lot about dogs lately and bringing home books about them. “Maybe we can help.”

  “But we’re not sure the dog will—”

  “I’ll do garbage runs every single day and make my bed all the time—honest. Can we go tomorrow, please?”

  “You have school tomorrow.” Nick clasped his son’s shoulder, feeling himself softening. For some reason the idea of going back to the animal clinic made his palms sweat.

  “Then, Saturday. Can we go see the hurt dog Saturday? That’s two days away.” He grabbed Nick’s arm and held on tight, as if his very heart were in Nick’s hands.

  It was probably a mistake to let him get involved with those dogs on any level; there was no guarantee the golden would even survive until Saturday. But Ben didn’t ask for much...whether because he was content with what he had, he didn’t want to be a pest or he feared being disappointed, Nick couldn’t have said. God knew he’d had more than his share of pain and disappointment in his young life. At that moment, as he looked down into his son’s big, hazel eyes, Nick would have agreed to take him to the moon and back.

  “Okay, I guess. If they’re open. Saturday.”

  Whatever happened later, it was worth it just to have his son throw his arms around his waist and hold on for all he was worth.

  He stroked Ben’s head where it lay against him and for the thousandth time questioned if he was doing right by the boy. Would he ever feel up to the job of father and guide for the son he didn’t really understand? Would he ever be able to make up to the boy for his mother’s abandonment? But then, how could he help Ben understand why she’d left them when he didn’t understand it himself?

  Later—after he’d put Ben to bed, had some of his mom’s warmed-over ziti and sunk into a chair in front of Thursday Night Football—he groaned privately at what he’d agreed to do. Saturday. He was going to have to see that vet again, the curvy little blonde with the big blue eyes and strong hands. Sure hands. Gentle hands. The image of her stroking the golden’s head, reassuring the dog, came back to him in a rush, and on its heels came the memory of that first moment in the puppy room.

  She’d been sitting on the floor being mobbed by puppies, smiling, laughing—her face, her whole being radiating vitality and pleasure. The rays of the setting sun were slanting through the windows and struck her from behind, causing her hair to glow. Glow. For a minute there, he’d been struck speechless and just stared.

  There were other women present, and the floor was strewed with puppies, chew toys and spilled water, but Kate Everly hugging those puppies was all he saw. It had taken every bit of discipline he could command to remember his mission and tell them about the dog.

  His hands curled into fists at the remembered urge to touch her.

  Then he had driven like a madman to her clinic and volunteered to help with the damned surgery. After years in Iraq and the Stan, you’d think he would have had enough trauma and gore. But there he was, itching to get back into it while sneaking glances at her shape—which admittedly was pretty sweet—and watching her hands. What was it about her hands?

  He groaned aloud and finished his beer in a couple of gulps. He didn’t need to be thinking like this, feeling like this. But he kept going back to the end, when he’d stood close to her, watching her face. He knew he should back off and give her some room, but was unable to make himself do it. Every nerve in his body had hummed with awareness of her.

  He crushed the empty can and squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his thoughts back to the problem at hand. The dog had a fifty-fifty chance. He had promised Ben they would check on her, but there was no guarantee she would still be there on Saturday. He didn’t want to think about the disappointment he would see in Ben’s face if something happened to the animal in the meantime. He’d gotten himself into a situation.

  Man up, Stanton. For God’s sake—just hope the golden makes it a few more days. And who says Kate Everly will even be there? She has a partner—maybe he’ll be there instead of her. Just keep your head in the mission, your hands in your damn pockets and get it over with.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE GOLDEN WAS holding her own.

  Kate stood at the counter of the rear surgery at noon that Saturday, entering notes into the computer on her last patient of the day when the golden raised her head. She drank from the water bowl they had placed nearby, and Kate paused to watch, marveling at the dog’s progress. The golden was still weak, but the stitches were holding and she was showing some interest in food, at least if it came from a human hand. She seemed to be comfortable around people, and Kate couldn’t help wondering for the twentieth time where she had come from and why she was wandering the countryside in the company of a temperamental shepherd.

  “You know,” she said to the dog, “if you stay around here much longer, we’re going to have to give you a name. If you have any preferences, you’d better speak up, because Jess is dying to name some poor critter ‘Ermahgerd.’”

  She knelt by the dog, running hands over her silky head and soft ears. “Good girl.” The dog gave a tail thump in response and Kate smiled. She checked the IV line taped to the dog’s foreleg, found it secure and slid inescapably into the memory of how it was done. Those big hands—she could see them in perfect detail—neatly muscular, surprisingly agile—

  “That papillon of Mrs. Richardson’s is a piece of work.”

  Kate started and turned to see her partner exiting exam room 3.

  “The old lady swears ‘Poochie’ picks out her own outfits every day,” Jess continued, shaking her head. “Today it was blue taffeta and pearls. Pearls. The dog’s got a better wardrobe than most women I know.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t take much to be better than mine,” Kate said with a laugh, tucking her hair behind her ears and rising. She looked down at her khakis and the faded green polo awash in animal hair and sporting a couple of damp spots she didn’t want to investigate too closely.

  Jess, on the other hand, looked like an ad for vintage Abercrombie & Fitch: plaid shirt and stylishly faded jeans beneath her white coat, and expensive, half-laced hiking boots. She stood six feet tall, had long, dark hair that she wore pulled back into a haphazard bun, and moved with an athletic grace Kate had always envied. Even in her most windblown or just awakened state, she managed to look good.

  They were complete opposites, which was probably one of the reasons they had become fast friends the first semester of vet school and had always wanted to go into practice together. Short, honey-blonde Kate was the neat one, the careful planner and progress monitor, the one determined to iron out all the wrinkles in life. Jess was messy in everything but her work, spontaneous and adventuresome, and loved parties, men and changing her mind.

  “How is she doing?”

  “She’s co
ming along.” There was no small bit of pride in Kate’s assessment. “If she keeps this up, in another few days we can move her to the shelter.”

  Jess came to stand beside her and look down at her patient.

  “Then maybe she’ll get to see her boyfriend again.” She chuckled. “That dude’s a handful. I can’t imagine anybody scooping him up and taking him home. Not unless they live in a bunker somewhere.” She shrugged out of her white coat and hung it on a hook by the waiting-room door. “Hey, maybe you ought to call that big trooper and have him come over to help move her.” She brightened visibly. “You know, the one with all those muscles and the uniform.”

  Kate gave her a don’t-go-there look and regretted ever mentioning Nick Stanton to her, much less describing him so thoroughly. She fished through the papers on the nearby counter for the shopping list she’d made last night. “Don’t you have a supply run to make?”

  “I’m just sayin’.” Jess’s smile was pure provocation. “I know you have a weakness for uniforms.” Kate’s deepening glower only incited her to continue. “You’ve got to live while you can, Kate. You can’t let what happened with Jared ruin the rest of your life.”

  “My life is not ruined just because I’m not attached to a man. I have a lot to do, and I enjoy what I do. I don’t have time for...wasting my time.” That last came out a little more vehemently than she intended. Jess put her hands up in surrender, then snatched the list and headed for the back door, where she paused for one more volley.

  “Sex, properly done, is never a waste of time, sweetums.”

  Kate watched the door well after it closed, roundly annoyed by her partner’s final salvo. Jess was fond of making one last crack and escaping before she could make a blistering comeback. Not that she usually could come up with a blistering comeback, but she at least deserved the chance to try. The man thing was a running argument they would likely never settle: Kate believed in stable and serious relationships, while Jess pursued fierce and spontaneous affairs of the heart.

  “Doc?” LeeAnn Monroe, their spiky-haired receptionist, poked her head through the double doors that led to the waiting room. “The patients are all gone and I finished the bank deposit, but before I could lock the doors, a man walked in, asking to see you.”