Soldier's Rescue

“Just tell me how to get there,” he said, his voice full of certainty.

Kate inhaled sharply as if she’d been holding her breath.

“Why don’t you ride with the dog?” Gran said as Kate emerged from the back seat. “I’ll bring your Jeep over later, and Isabelle can pick me up.”

It sounded reasonable. She nodded and handed her keys to Gran. As she slid back into the rear seat, she was aware of the officer releasing the shepherd into the front seat with a warning and then closing the rear door. The shepherd climbed over the hardware in the front—computer, radio, scanner, racked gun—not the least bit intimidated. He turned and put paws on the seat back to watch what was happening behind him. The officer slid behind the steering wheel and managed to click his seat belt and crank the wheel with the palm of his hand at the same time.

“You’ll want to hang on,” he called over his shoulder.

She scrambled for room beside the injured dog and found a seat belt just as they took off, gravel flying. She jerked against the restraint as the cruiser’s tires grabbed the asphalt of the county road.

Lights and sirens for an injured dog; this was a first for her. She glanced up at the officer in the front seat and caught a few more details: strong jaw with a hint of a scar beneath a Florida tan. Dark hair cut high and tight—military, for sure. Judging by his erect bearing and contained physicality, he could handle himself—probably had handled himself.

She gave directions, then stroked her patient and murmured quiet reassurances. When she looked up, wary eyes in a brooding shepherd face were watching her. Distrust. She’d seen that look a thousand times in animals and sensed that she’d need the officer’s help at the end of this mad dash. Turning back to her patient, she carried in her mind’s eye the image of the shepherd anxiously nosing her patient’s head.

“Thanks for doing this, Officer...”

“Trooper. Stanton. Nick Stanton.”

“Kate Everly. DVM.”

“I gathered.” He seemed to glance at her in the rearview mirror; it was hard to tell where he was looking behind those shades. “Lucky you were there.”

“My grandmother is on the shelter’s board. She ropes me into helping regularly.”

He nodded and said nothing more.

Clearly a man of few words.

CHAPTER TWO

“SO, THIS IS YOURS,” Trooper Stanton said, killing the siren as they pulled into the parking lot outside the darkened Lakeview Animal Clinic. The building was a stucco-covered one-story with a dozen indoor runs, two surgeries and half a dozen exam rooms; perfect for a two-vet operation.

“And the bank’s,” she said as she pointed to the drive at the side. “Around the back—we can take her straight into the surgery.”

The minute the cruiser stopped, she jumped out and headed for the steel security door to punch in the lock code. Then she stepped inside and turn off the alarm. Seconds later, the trooper lifted the injured golden from the cruiser and carried her to the rear entrance. Kate went ahead of them, turning on lights and making sure one of the surgery tables was clear.

“We’ll start a line first—get some fluids going in her—then we’ll do an X-ray or two.” She grabbed clippers, a bag of saline and an IV needle.

He settled the golden gently on the table and watched as Kate made a more thorough examination, then shaved one of the golden’s front legs.

“I got this.” He grabbed the needle pack as she reached for it, and he ripped it open. “I don’t know anything about X-rays, though. That’s your department.”

But he did know about starting IVs in dogs? She was halfway around the table to protest when a growl startled her. The shepherd braced himself in a warning stance near the table, his nose up and twitching as he read the surgery’s mix of urgency, animal scents and medicinal smells.

“Can it, tough guy.” The trooper straightened as the dog ignored him. He barked an order to sit. When the dog defied that order, he made a fist and did a biceps curl, snapping the fist to his shoulder. After a tense moment, the dog lowered its rear to the floor. He stared at the dog for a minute, seeming a little surprised it had worked, then went back to starting the IV.

His take-charge attitude in her surgery rankled, but something stopped her from setting him straight. Maybe it was the knowledgeable way his fingers swabbed the shaved area, felt for a vein and carefully inserted the needle. Maybe it was the shepherd’s obedience. Still, she didn’t move until the line was established and he raised the bag, looking for a place to hang it. In the midst of starting the IV, he’d taken off his sunglasses; they were hanging from a shirt pocket.

“Where did you learn to do that?” she asked. His eyes suited his face—big and bold—an arresting light hazel color.

“Iraq.” When she crossed her arms and waited for more, he looked less comfortable. “We had dogs...and...sometimes they got dehydrated.”

“Interesting,” she said after a moment, sensing there was a lot of story behind that terse description. His rescue of these dogs made sense in light of his military experience. Soldiers in combat got close to their canine comrades, and that experience often carried over to civilian life.

Still, this dog was a stray, and whatever time and effort she expended would never show a positive on the practice’s balance sheets. The odds of a favorable outcome were probably just south of fifty-fifty, but she had to do whatever she could to treat the dog.

Annoyed—with him or her own soft-hearted impulses?—she pulled over a pole for the IV and went for the portable X-ray.

Thankfully, this didn’t take much time. Because it was just as she feared: the X-rays showed a hairline in the pelvis and a major compound fracture in the leg. She called her partner, Jess, to come in to help, but the call went straight to voice mail. It was Jess’s night off, and she was probably out with her man-of-the-month.

“I’m afraid if we wait until tomorrow to do the surgery she’ll be in even worse shape,” she said, mostly to herself, while running a hand gently over the golden’s head.

“I can help,” Trooper Stanton said over his shoulder as he washed his hands in the scrub sink. When he turned and propped his hands on his service belt, spreading his elbows enough that his chest strained his shirt. She frowned, wishing he wouldn’t do that and that she wasn’t drawn to watch him do it. Her frown deepened.

“You ever helped with a surgery?”

“Field stuff. Stitching sometimes. Mostly wrap and run.” He cocked his head, watching her decide. “I’m not a fainter.”

“I would guess not,” she said under her breath. Decision made, she turned to the shelves along the far wall to pull surgical supplies. Halfway there, she stopped dead, confronted by a shepherd braced for action. “Um, we may have a problem here.”

Trooper Stanton scowled and then ordered the shepherd to the table where his injured companion lay. The dog approached cautiously, rose with one paw against the table and sniffed his friend.

“She’s going be okay, tough guy, but you have to give the doc here room to work.” He strode to a nearby door, flipped on a light inside the exam room, then shoved the shepherd in. The instant the door closed between them, there were thumps against the door and barks of protest. Stanton drew a deep breath. “It’s for the best.”

Jess, Kate’s partner, was a big gal, but even the large gloves she used were a tight fit on the trooper. To his credit, he didn’t complain, and he held the anesthetic mask properly and paid scrupulous attention to Kate’s directions.

She described the damage and the basis for her decision-making at each step as they went in. There wasn’t much to do with the cracked pelvis; nature would have to take care of that. But the broken leg had to be held in position while she pinned the bones, and he supplied the necessary muscle without a twitch. Twice she paused to listen to the golden’s heart and pronounced it within safe limits.

More than an hour later, they finished cleaning and closing the last cuts on the dog’s hindquarters. She injected antibiotics and pain meds into the IV and watched for any reaction. As she hoped, there was none.

“Well, that’s it,” she declared, ripping off her gloves and stuffing them, along with the bloody drapes and used instrument packs, into the garbage can. “It’s up to her now. You want to help me move her?”

They picked up the blanket she lay on by the corners and transferred the dog onto a low shelf where she could be monitored while being out of the way. “Our version of the recovery room,” she explained with a wry smile.

She checked the dog’s heart and lungs again, then rose to find Trooper Nick Stanton staring through the window, his expression as dark as the night outside.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He seemed oddly subdued as he gestured to the door of the nearby exam room where a thud and some growls reminded them there was still another problem to solve. “What about him?”

She chewed her lip as she studied the door and then looked back at her patient. “Maybe we should let him see she’s all right. Then we could put him in a run for the night. I’ll take him back to the shelter tomorrow.”

The shepherd shot out into the surgery and followed the trooper’s direction to where the golden lay recovering. He sniffed her head to toe, seemed to understand her condition was grave and began to pace. Kate snagged a leash from the rack by the waiting-room door and approached the dog in a calm manner. She managed to get the leash over his head before he bolted.

Stanton reached for the lead and ended up dragging the animal into the kennels, where they were bombarded with barking from dogs overnighting at the office. As the door to the run closed, the shepherd clawed at the leash and shook his head to remove the loop from his neck.

“I’d say he has trust issues,” Kate said as she watched the dog.

“From the scars on his face, he’s got reason,” Trooper Stanton said, working to recover his breath.

“Could be he had a run-in with another dog.” She retreated down the alley to the back room, flipping off the lights in the noisy kennel. Stanton followed, retucking his shirt and resettling his service belt.

“Could be that humans sponsored that run-in.”

Out in the surgery again, she busied herself wiping down the table and equipment. He paused across the room, watched her for a minute and then looked around.

“Nice place,” he said. “You and a partner?”

“And the bank,” she said, pausing with a towel in one hand and disinfectant spray in the other. “Can’t forget the bank.” A moment later she stowed the cleaner and washed her hands. As she knelt beside her newest patient, she heard him come around the table and stop nearby.

“How is she doing?”

“Sleeping it off. I’ll give her another dose of pain meds in the morning. If we can keep her comfortable, she’ll heal better.” Overwhelmed by his presence, she rose and stepped back.

“Okay, then. I guess I’m done here,” he said, staring at her.

“I guess so.” A foot or two wasn’t enough space to escape awareness of his size, his body heat and the aura of control that radiated from him. Warmth slid down the back of her throat; she felt a little conspicuous as she cleared it. “Thanks for the help. You’re kind of good at this, Trooper Stanton.”

“Nick,” he said, his voice a little deeper than moments ago.

“Nick,” she said, and offered her hand. “I remember. And I’m—”

“Kate. Nice working with you, Kate.” He shook her hand, careful not to look directly at her. She knew because she was being careful to avoid eye contact herself.

“You okay here? By yourself?” He glanced around the surgery.

“Yeah. I’ll call Gran. She’s going to drop off my car.” She realized now that she could probably have driven herself over to the office. Odd that Gran insisted she ride along with the trooper and that she would bring Kate’s Jeep over, but hadn’t.

“Okay, then.” He seemed a little uncertain, then backed toward the door. “I’ll take off. Have a good night, Doc.”

“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?