Ariel focused on the dog whose head was a warm, welcome weight on her knee. She wanted to hug him, but she wasn’t sure he was ready for that yet. She’d done a lot of reading on the way here and knew that some dogs felt trapped when enveloped in a human hug. For all that they were trained to deal with anything, she didn’t want to add to the animal’s stress level.
She didn’t look around at the small living area, except to register that there was—thankfully—no sign of the coming holiday. No Christmas tree, no wreaths, no sparkly lights, not even a card in sight. Just like her San Diego apartment. Which to her, after the wealth of décor at the inn and that she’d driven through in Last Stand, was a relief.
In fact, the only personal touches she’d noticed at all in here were the books—everything from history to westerns to science fiction, she saw—stacked on a small table beside the big chair next to the window. And, on the wall opposite the small flat-screen TV, a colorful oil painting that hung over the sofa on which she now sat.
She wondered what was going on in Tri’s mind. She had seen many videos on military war dogs. She hated the acronym MWDs, because it made them sound like just another weapon. Replaceable. Discardable. As they had once, cruelly, been. Abandoned once the task was done, left behind, even in places where a dog was considered vermin, or worse, food. The practice had ended, but she couldn’t help wondering if it would have, if dog-lovers hadn’t found out about it and raised a huge fuss.
So now there was a place for them to come home, but if they didn’t or couldn’t adapt to civilian life, their future was worse than iffy. And they would become just one more casualty if there weren’t people willing to fight for them as they, in their way, had fought.
If men like Chance Rafferty didn’t exist.
She looked up from Tri—she was making a conscious, firm effort to stop thinking of him by the name she’d always heard before—although she didn’t stop stroking him, since the longer she did it, the more he seemed to relax. She found Chance watching her, rather intently. No, watching Tri, she was sure. Constant vigilance, as Dean had always joked, imitating a voice and intonation from a movie character.
“May I ask you something?” she finally said.
His mouth quirked wryly. He had, among other things, a very nice mouth. Not that she noticed such things anymore. Except she just had.
“Not sure I have any words left, but go ahead,” he answered.
“Where’s your dog?” The instant the words were out and she saw the way his expression changed, she had her answer. Before he found any of those words he’d mentioned, she hastened to remove the need. “I’m sorry. Were you with him?”
“No.” His voice was a cold, harsh, wounded thing. She wondered if he realized how much he betrayed with that voice, that look in his eyes. “I’d come home. He was still on active duty and was redeployed. He was killed on his first mission with a new handler. Three years ago next week.”
“One deployment too many.” Just like Dean. “And another reason to hate this time of year.” At her words Chance gave her an oddly sharp look she couldn’t interpret. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Sore spot.”
“Yes,” he agreed, and left it at that.
She managed an even tone when she asked, “What was he like? Your dog.”
His expression was a combination of sadness and smile that she suspected she herself had worn more than once. “In looks, he was darker that Tri, overall. Personality? He was…a tactical nuke on duty. A furry guided missile. Off…he was a clown. Completely goofy.” The slightest of smiles curved the corners of his mouth. “We had this really full-of-himself company commander for a while. Crazy dog stole his underwear and ran through camp with it, flying like a flag. He made everybody laugh.”
The image almost made her laugh, something that hadn’t happened involuntarily in a very long time. And something about his smile reached a deep, caring place inside her that she hadn’t allowed to stir for a long time. It all made her voice soft when she said, “So he saved you in more than one way.”
She saw his jaw tighten, thought he wasn’t going to answer. When he finally did, she was almost certain it was not because he wanted to, but because he felt that his hero dog deserved it.
“He did. More times than I can count. He’s the reason this—” he gestured toward the kennels outside “—exists. The reason I’m still alive to do it.” That jaw muscle jumped again, and when he went on it was clearly something he’d fought against saying. “I wanted to bring him home. I put in for him, before I left. Told them I’d come get him no matter where he was stationed when his time was up. But I got that damned phone call instead.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
His gaze narrowed sharply. She supposed it was because it was kind of a therapist sort of question—she’d been through enough to know—and she guessed he wasn’t the sort of guy who’d take easily to that. But to her surprise, again he answered.
“Guilty.”
She drew back slightly; she hadn’t expected that. But she thought she understood. “Because you think if you’d stayed, if you’d still been with him, it wouldn’t have happened?”
“Might not have,” he muttered. “We were a team. It was like he knew what I was thinking, and maybe…”
He trailed off, shook his head, then lowered it to rub at his forehead as if he had a headache starting. She noticed again the touch of gray at his temples, at odds with the otherwise youthful look of him. It didn’t detract, in fact to her, it made him even more attractive.
Attractive?
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d thought that about a man. Any man other than Dean, anyway. He was her gold standard, and no one had ever come close.
She shoved aside the errant thought and got herself back on track. Thought about his feelings of guilt about the death of his own dog. She stroked Tri steadily, this time adding a bit of scratching around his ears. Then, speaking very, very quietly, she said, “Then just imagine how you’d feel if you found out, after thinking him dead, that he was hurt but alive.”
“What?” His head came up sharply. His brow was furrowed, but it cleared almost instantly. “You mean Tri. You thought he was dead.”
He’d gotten there very fast. She nodded. “I didn’t know he’d survived until…later.”
“You mean after they showed up at your door to tell you Dean was dead?”
He said it bluntly, almost harshly. For a moment she wondered if his intent had been to hurt. It could have, if she’d let it. But upon a moment’s reflection, she realized she preferred this to the platitudes people usually came up with, to dance around the reality of it.
“Yes.”
“Great, isn’t it? They do it to ‘break it gently,’ they say. But the instant you see them coming…”
He lowered his gaze again, just as a sudden thought hit her. She searched her memory, trying to recall exactly what the minimal bio on the website had said. Something about following in his father’s footsteps? That had been it, no details. But still, she knew. She could hear it in his voice, see it in those eyes that looked more gray than blue at the moment.
“You’ve been there.” It wasn’t a question; she hadn’t intended it to be.
“Yes.”
“Your father?” she finally asked when he said no more.
“Yes.”
She wondered how old he’d been. Not that it mattered, not really, not with a loss that size. And suddenly it was there, that dark, consuming place inside her, the yawning, empty chasm of grief. All the years ahead, without Dean, were in that hole, and she had no choice about whether to face it. Her eyes burned and she angrily swiped at them; they were so useless, the tears. They accomplished nothing except to make her feel worse because she couldn’t stop them.
“It never stops.” She wasn’t even aware of having spoken the words aloud. She hadn’t meant to.
“No.”
His short, flat answer was the first moment she realized she had indeed voiced the question. She looked up to see in his eyes the weary knowledge of one who had carried this burden much longer than she had. And again she appreciated the lack of false assurances.
Then, unexpectedly, his gaze softened. “It never stops,” he said, still bluntly, “but it…changes. Eases a little. And you learn. To live with it.”
It was choppy, in bits, but it was an answer. She remembered Cody Rafferty’s words, and his warning: …he doesn’t talk much. Don’t take it personally. So clearly talking like this was not something he usually did. Maybe he didn’t usually talk at all. That he was now, to her, did more to ease the sudden rush of pain than any platitude ever had.
“Thank you,” she said, a shaky whisper all she could manage. “Thank you for not…”
“Not bullsh—” He broke off and shifted to, “Lying to you?”
“Yes.” And somehow that polite catch, that mid-course correction made for her sake, made the gaping blackness recede a little more.