Chapter Eleven

Emma watched with relief as Jackson allowed his head to fall back against the couch cushion, his eyes at half-mast. She understood that talking about a problem could be the beginning of healing.

She sat forward. “Now, which dog do you see suiting your lifestyle the best?”

They both looked over to the gate. Bandit stared back at them, his gray ears tipped up and alert.

For the first time since he’d showed up at her doorstep, a smile crossed Jackson’s face. He unclenched the fist he had over his knee and walked to the gate, where he studied Bandit. He rubbed the back of the dog’s neck.

“I guess this one, right, boy?” Jackson opened the gate for Bandit to come through.

Emma, thrilled, didn’t see any point in waiting. She jumped up from her chair and hurried across the living room, her boots sinking into the padded carpet. “We can start today. Integrate Bandit into your household.”

“We have to be clear with Matthew that this is temporary.” Jackson looked at her, his voice and gaze hard. Tough. “Right?”

“Okay.” Emma stuffed her hands into her pockets.

“I don’t want his hopes up that we get to keep him.”

“I get it.”

“You promise you will take him back?”

“Bandit is a service animal in training. You know how I feel about the dogs, Jackson, and if you don’t, then, well, you don’t know me at all.”

“Sorry,” Jackson said. “I do know you.”

There was no guarantee that the nightmares would go away forever, but the mind was a powerful tool. Jackson never let his brain shut down completely, which meant it was on overdrive. Sleep provided a break from thinking, protecting, guarding.

“I don’t mind him being in the room,” Jackson said. “But I don’t want him on the bed.”

“We can set up a crate for Bandit—he needs to sense your changes in breathing—pre-nightmare.” She looked from Bandit to Jackson. “But it’s nice for him to have his own space, too. A place he knows he can go.”

“Sure.”

“I’ve got all that. I’ll pack food, a water dish. Toys.” She snapped her fingers. “I printed out some material on dog training and PTSD for you. We’ll use a clicker to train him to wake you up.” Emma walked to her office for the article, talking as she went down the hall. “You know they have special service animal phones to dial 911?”

“I don’t need a special phone,” Jackson said.

She returned to the living room, the article in hand. “I know. I was just saying. Dogs are so smart, but they feel, too.” Emma patted her heart. “And the training is important.”

“I feel kind of stupid,” Jackson mumbled.

Emma cocked her hip. “Why?” Stupid was so not an adjective she’d use for Jackson Hardy.

“I need a pet.” Jackson dragged out the last word. “I should be able to handle this on my own.”

Bandit growled his disapproval.

“Jackson,” Emma said, her throat tight, “you serve our country. That requires courage and maybe seeing or doing things that you wish you hadn’t. I thank you for that. But there are consequences.”

He waved her gratitude away, focusing on the back of Bandit’s head, which came to Jackson’s knee.

“I’m serious. And grateful. Coping with what is essentially a completely different life isn’t easy, and yet you have not only picked up the reins of your nephew’s world but done so with fairly little upheaval. I am not at all surprised that your past comes knocking at night, when you are vulnerable and tired.”

“I should be able to deal with it.” He looked toward the kitchen full of dogs, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“Says who?” Emma yearned to comfort him with a hug, or at least to hold his hand, but her own forbidden feelings made that impossible. Especially now that he’d come to her for help. As a client.

“Me.”

“Well, guess what? You’re choosing a way to handle it. The truth is that you might never get over your bad dreams, but between therapy and the ESD, you will be on your way to coping without the need for Red Bull.”

“I like Red Bull.” He paced across the floor. Bandit followed at his heels. “It’s like he understands what’s going on,” Jackson said.

Emma smiled. “Spooky, but in a great way.” Her phone dinged, and she read the text from Cindy at the shelter. “When it rains, it pours,” she said, looking at Lulu, snuggling in the kitchen with Pedro. “Someone requested Lulu after seeing her picture on the website. I’ve had her for almost seven months.” She’d gotten used to the idea that Lulu might always be around.

“Do you need to go?”

“Not yet, Jackson. Let’s get you and Bandit settled first. Tell you what—we can grab the supplies and bring him to your place. I’ll stop by after my shift at the shelter to see how you’re getting along. We can set up a routine for a better success rate.”

“What does that mean?” Jackson crossed his arms, the defiance back in the lift of his chin.

“Well, no caffeine after noon, no alcohol or spicy food.”

He scowled.

“Sleep in your bedroom each night. Go to bed at the same time.”

“I’m not a child,” Jackson said.

As if she wasn’t very aware of that fact? He exuded testosterone as if needing to prove who was top dog with each breath. “These are guidelines for what works.”

“Matthew has more leeway.” His green eyes narrowed, and Emma sensed he was on the verge of changing his mind.

“I’m not saying that you have to do it, just that it helps. You said you trusted me, Jackson.”

“Are you going to sleep with me too?” His brow winged upward, and he speared her in place.

Emma’s cheeks heated, remembering how they used to have no problem fitting on her old twin bed. She swallowed hard and stuffed her phone into her shorts’ pocket. “Not with you, with you.” She decided right then to call Sawyer, because he had more experience with war veterans than she did. “I don’t think—”

“Hell, no.” He shook his head. “No way.”

Emma watched as Jackson allowed Bandit to lean against his leg, subconsciously taking comfort from the dog.

She knew Bandit could help, but it required time and training. “You wouldn’t have to know that I was even there.”

“Because you won’t be.”

Getting Bandit into the home without specific training wouldn’t work. “Jackson, please. We need to come up with a plan.”

“What kind of plan?”

“We can choose.” She handed him the papers she’d printed on dog training and PTSD.

He took them without reading what they were and rolled them into a tube. “No…never mind.”

Her heart sank. “Why?”

“This is way too much.” Jackson lifted his hand from the top of Bandit’s head. “I’m not ready.”

She felt his panic. Anxiety magnified across his handsome features. “For what, Jackson?”

“I need to call the shrink, then we can see—it wouldn’t be right to Matty, bringing Bandit home and then asking him to give the dog up.”

Emma nodded, seeing right through the ruse but going along with it even though her heart was breaking. What mattered was that Jackson got help, especially since he was going back to his unit overseas. “You’re right. That is a good idea.”

“Yeah?” He shoved his right hand into his front jeans’ pocket and pulled out the keys to his motorcycle. “Listen, I’m sorry that I bothered you.”

“It was no bother. It is no bother. Maybe ask your psychiatrist about having a dog. Bandit. Just for a while. I will check with Sawyer. He’s done this kind of training before. I’ll ask him for the least intrusive way to train Bandit to wake you up.” She half smiled.

Emma leaned against the wall of the hallway, facing Jackson and the front door, the dogs behind the gate blocking them in the kitchen and watching every word they bantered back and forth.

Bandit sat at Jackson’s side, emitting a low rumble from his chest.

“So why don’t you go home, call your doctor, and then let’s talk again tomorrow or the next day? We will be right here.” Emma was proud of herself for not adding any pressure when she wanted to take him by the hand and walk with him as he headed into the unknown.

Just like before, he hadn’t trusted her to be his partner.

Jackson backed up toward the door. Bandit looked from her to Jackson in confusion.

She snapped her fingers to her side, and Bandit, reluctantly, tail and ears down, joined her as Jackson closed the door.

Emma watched out the peephole as he practically ran to his bike and sped away.

“Not this time, Bandit.” Emma dropped to her knees to look into the dog’s brown eyes. “You are a very intuitive pup, aren’t you? Jackson needs us. You.” She ruffled the fur at his neck. “Good boy.”

…

Jackson didn’t need anybody other than Matthew. God, he’d almost made a huge mistake, bringing Bandit home.

But the dog had made him feel better somehow. What if the nightmares came because he deserved them? What if he deserved the nightmares because of what he’d done in the name of war?

He parked the bike next to his truck and went inside. Matty sat at the small dining room table chowing down on a bowl of cereal, the book on golden retrievers open in front of him.

Jackson poured himself a cup of coffee. “How’s the book?”

“Cool. Did you know that golden retrievers are the third most popular pet in America?”

“No.”

“Yeah, it’s true. Because they’re so friendly. And really smart.”

Jackson drank from his mug, leaning his butt against the counter as he waited for more from Mr. Encyclopedia.

“They are easy to take care of, and even though they have long hair, all you have to do is brush them.”

He waited.

“Bandit is part golden retriever,” Matty said in an offhand manner.

The kid was good, Jackson would give him that. “Yeah. I remember Emma telling us that.”

Matthew looked up from his bowl of cereal, a droplet of milk on his lower lip. “Did you talk to her?”

“Yes.”

“Uncle Jackson!”

“We had a nice conversation.”

Matty let his spoon fall against the plastic of the bowl. “And?” His bright eyes and earnest expression made Jackson wish he really was a superhero.

“I’m going to find a psychiatrist today, and if he agrees, we talked about getting a dog on a very temporary basis.”

Matthew exploded upward from his chair as if launched by a rocket and raced toward Jackson, who barely lifted the mug of hot coffee out of the way in time. Setting it behind him, he enjoyed the hug for a moment before gently taking Matthew by the shoulders.

“Hey, look at me now.”

Matty, still grinning, looked up. “Yeah?”

“Temporary, maybe.”

“I know, geez. I heard you.”

“It’s a lot of responsibility. And I’m not saying yes. I’m saying maybe. You’ll have to do your share. I’m not good with the pooper scooper.”

“I will, I will.”

“I know you will. I’m counting on it.”

Jackson nudged Matty toward the table.

Matthew sat and picked up his spoon to chase the little circles around the milk. “I’ll take him out and walk him. And I know how to use the whistle. But Bandit is so smart, he will help you.” He slurped his cereal. “I know it.”

“How did you know I was thinking about Bandit?”

“Duh. He picked you.”

“You’re a goofy kid, Matty. I love you. Very much. And I’m sorry about the nightmares.”

He looked down into the bowl. “It’s okay.”

Jackson refilled his coffee and sat across from Matthew. “Since I’m doing the psychiatrist hunt, I wondered if you wanted to talk to someone?”

Matty lifted his face, his expression confused. “About what?”

“Your mom. Me. School, heck, whatever you want to talk about.”

Matthew quieted but bravely held his gaze. “Is Mom really going to come home?”

The coffee he’d been drinking rose up, burning Jackson’s throat.

Matthew squeezed his eyes shut as if to avoid crying. “I know that makes me a bad person, not stayin’ positive.”

“You aren’t a bad person.” Hell, his parents had died and it had been Livvie who’d been strong and kept them together. “Your mom has so much love inside her that I know she will do whatever she has to in order to come home to you. Being your mom is the best thing in her world; she told me that.”

“But what if she’s hurt so bad that she can’t?” Matty sniffed and scratched the tip of his nose, looking to him for reassurance.

Jackson lowered his head, feeling pulled apart. His nephew needed him here. His unit needed him overseas. “Then we will handle it, bud.”

“What about your job?”

“That’s just it. Because I’ve been doing it so long, I’m kind of good at it.” He paused, wondering how he’d gotten to be so “good” at war. “And my boss needs me to come back.” He shoved his mug an inch forward with his forefinger.

“So you’re going back to get shot at?” Matthew’s cheeks paled beneath the summer tan.

“It’s what I do, Matty. It’s what we Hardys have always done.” The reason sounded weak when faced with his nephew’s legitimate fear of the future.

Matthew pushed his chair back from the table, the legs screeching across the linoleum floor. “Well, I don’t like it.”

He waited, as if expecting to be punished for saying what he felt out loud. Jackson thought back to what Emma, so earnestly, had told him earlier. “There are no wrong feelings, Matty. Let’s just see what happens. I won’t leave you alone, okay?”

Matty’s lower lip quivered, but damned if the kid didn’t square his shoulders.

“Go hop in the shower, and I’ll make this phone call.”

Matty left the kitchen, head high. Jackson went through the junk drawer beneath the phone in the hall and dug out the stack of paperwork holding the list of doctors’ numbers. He hadn’t planned on using any of them and had scribbled the number for pizza delivery on the page corner.

He sat down at the kitchen table, avoiding putting his elbow in spilled milk. What he wanted to do was talk to Emma. Tell her what he’d seen. Confess to her what he’d done. She was a damn good listener.

But he couldn’t do that—Jackson didn’t want to see the desire in her eyes that she had for him turn to shame.