When Trevor would bring Janus in for a post-op exam, the dog would walk right up to him and sit down, as if silently saying, “Go on. Get it over with.”
“Nah,” he said softly, squatting down in front of him. “I don’t need to check you for bullet wounds. Not here. Not today.”
Not ever again.
His hands had started to shake again. He covered the tremors by burying them in Janus’s fur. It wouldn’t hurt to check the condition of his injuries, he told himself, parting the fur, finding a diagonal slice that started at the top of his right shoulder blade and ended between his two front legs. A piece of mortar had nearly taken his leg off, but it was healing nicely.
“How does he look?”
Ethan didn’t turn, just went on exploring Janus’s body as he said, “Good.”
He dragged his hand along the dog’s side where he found a half-dollar-sized bump. Sniper round. Went clean through. Miracle Janus had lived. Another scar on his other side—this was from an old bomb blast. So many untold stories. So many near misses. Until...
He stood quickly. Janus scooted closer to him, his head tipped back, dark eyes unblinking. He opened his mouth and started to pant, something close to a canine smile lifting the corners of his mouth as their gazes locked.
I missed you, too, he silently telegraphed.
But it was also damn difficult. It brought it all back. The trip home. The funeral afterward. The look on Trevor’s wife’s face as she’d been handed the flag. She tried to be so strong for her kids, but her hands had trembled as she reached for the talisman, and he’d watched as the weight of her sorrow brought down the roof of her control.
“Ethan?”
“Whatever you’re doing, keep on doing it.”
Breathe, he told himself. And again. Don’t let Claire see how close you are to crumbling, too.
“Good. I’m glad. Just as soon as he’s healed from his wounds, I’ve got a home lined up for him.”
He had to work to keep his voice even. “He’ll do great.” He just wished...
“What?”
Clearly she’d read the dissatisfaction in his eyes. “I wish she would have taken him.”
“Who?”
“Naomi,” he clarified. “Trevor’s wife. I wish she would have taken him.”
“Me, too.”
He should have applied to take Janus home, but that was the problem. He didn’t have a “home,” a necessary component to being approved for adoption. He might have been able to pull some strings, but to be honest, then what? He had no idea where he was going, or what city he’d end up in, or what he’d end up doing. Before he’d left for Via Del Caballo he’d applied to a number of jobs, most of them working at veterinary clinics, but a few of them doing what he wanted to do—training dogs. Right now, Janus didn’t fit into his life. Better to let him go, to let him start over with a family to love him.
“Ready to look at Thor?”
“Sure.”
The dog hadn’t changed position since his arrival. He still lay huddled against the wall of his shelter. He couldn’t even see the dog’s eyes, they were buried so deeply into his paws.
“I put him on the end so I could interact with him on my way to and from the kennels.” She led him back the way they’d come. “It hasn’t helped. He’s snapped at me twice. I usually don’t neuter them right away, but I’m wondering if it wouldn’t help with this dog. To be honest, I’m at my wit’s end.”
He approached the dog warily, his experience with military working dogs—or MWDs—having taught him that it was often better to approach behind the safety of a fence first, so he once again walked around the corner of the row of kennels. All the dogs had passed a behavioral test, but still, she had a point. Neutering him might help, too. In fact, most MWDs were adopted out already spayed or neutered, but Claire took all dogs in, one of the rare civilian operations in the United States. Clearly, someone had pulled some major strings when setting up her operation, not that he cared. As long as the dogs were well taken care of. Thor looked good, he thought, approaching the kennel. Beneath the shade of a giant oak tree, the dog blended in with a shadow but his coat and his weight told Ethan all he needed to know. His lack of movement told him something, too; he was a dog that clearly didn’t want to be disturbed.
“He’s obviously eating well.”
“He is, but he waits to eat until I’m not around. I’ve watched him through my kitchen window. He picks at his food, too, I’ve noticed, eating a little here and a little there.”
“Any vomiting or diarrhea?”
“No. I had him checked out by a friend. She did a complete workup. Nothing wrong.”
He squatted down next to the dog’s run. “Hey, Thor, buddy. How’s it going?”
No response. Not an ear twitch. Not a wrinkled nose. Not even a tiny wag of the tail.
“What happened to his partner?”
“KIA.”
It was just a phrase—KIA—but it kicked him in the gut. He had to grab at the fence as the familiar anxiety returned, not that Thor noticed. Ethan could still smell the desert if he closed his eyes. Hear the sound of the incoming mortar just before it hit their encampment. Hear the screams...
Stop.
He couldn’t change the past. Couldn’t change what happened to Trevor any more than he could change the direction of the wind. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of oak and pollen-filled air and...Claire.
Mostly, he focused on the smell of Claire; vanilla with maybe just a hint of butterscotch thrown in. Woman were a rarity over there, especially pretty women, women who smelled good. He would focus on her and her kind eyes.
Three, two...
He got ahold of himself, just as he’d taught himself to do, with grim determination. His hands still shook, but he was able to focus on the dog again. “Do you have a whistle?”
“Do I...” He turned in time to spy her look of consternation. “In the house, I think.”
“Would you get it for me?”
She turned without another word, and Ethan watched her walk away. The scent of her lingered. Like dessert after Sunday dinner. Like home.
You are home, idiot. Back in the States.
No. Like when he’d grown up with his grandfather, back before he’d died. The best times of his life. And then everything had changed.
And if she knew how messed up you are, she’d stay in her house. To hell with the whistle.
That was the thing; nobody knew how messed up he was. Not even his superior officer. Not even the military shrink. Not even the discharge
