when Nick clearly didn’t want to go. “And there aren’t always enough volunteers to spend time with them.”
Nick paled, caught in a perfect pincer movement. He seemed to be working hard not to squirm; cords were visible in his neck.
“Okay, we can go to the shelter.” He sent Ben a stern look that didn’t seem to impact the boy’s grin, so he added, “Just for a little while.”
She smiled. “I just have to check on the dogs in the runs and then lock up. I guess I’ll see you there.” As the Stantons headed for the front door, she heard Nick’s deep voice rumble.
“Just to be clear, we are not taking any puppies home.”
And she grinned.
THE PARKING LOT was nearly full that afternoon when Nick and Ben arrived at the Harbor Animal Rescue. Nick took in the rambling farmhouse. He could see people in the fenced side yards, playing ball with some dogs. Ben climbed out of the back seat and headed straight for the fence. His face lit like it was Christmas morning as he climbed on a fence rail and watched the dogs romping and enjoying all the attention. Nick hung back for a while, but then made his way to Ben’s side and leaned on the fence to soak up his son’s enthusiasm.
For the past two days, dogs were all Ben could talk about, and Nick had a bad feeling about where this “hurt dog” stuff was heading: Ben asking for a dog of his own. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Ben to have a dog someday. He just wasn’t sure his son was ready for that level of responsibility. Caring for a living being involved a lot, and to be frank, he really didn’t want to have to—
“There you are.” The doc arrived at their side in the middle of his ruminations. He straightened and laid a hand on Ben’s shoulder as she gave them a sunny-from-the-inside-out kind of smile that made his belly tighten. “Want to come inside and check out the puppy room?”
“Yeah, that would be great!” Ben fairly glowed with excitement as he jumped down and headed after her without even a glance at his dad.
Nick sighed and followed.
She led them in the front door of the shelter office, and he fell in behind her and Ben as she explained the rules. “Simple, really. Wash hands before and after a play session, no roughhousing, don’t let the puppy chew on any part of you and if the puppy tries to get away, let it go.”
Reasonable rules, he told himself as he tried to avoid looking at Kate Everly’s khaki-clad hips and honey-gold hair. She was curvy and bright and a major animal lover. He watched the way she touched Ben, the way she used her hands as she talked, the purposeful ease of her gait. Grace, he thought. It sounded old-fashioned, like something his mother would say, but that was the only proper name for it. She had an open, feminine way about her that made people comfortable—probably a good thing in a doctor trusted to care for beloved animals. But those same qualities made every nerve in his body twitch with...anxiety? Expectation? Interest?
There were eight little bundles of fur in the puppy playroom. They were mixes—varying fuzzy shades of solid colors—long-haired dogs in the making. Ben did the obligatory hand washing with his eyes glued to the puppies. He was practically quivering with eagerness.
When the doc asked if Nick was going to join them, he gave a shake of his head and stepped back to lean a shoulder against the door frame. He watched Ben chase first one puppy, then another, trying to pet them. The pups sniffed him and bounded away to investigate other things. Kate Everly found a dry spot on the floor, sank down and patted the floor beside her. She showed Ben how to let the puppies come to him and sniff him. Moments later he was being swarmed by curious puppies and was beaming as he petted them and told them how cute they were.
There were other people in the room, one older volunteer and a girl who looked to be about twelve. The puppies tumbled over their own paws and climbed the humans and tried to chew on their shoes, their pant legs and their fingers. And there was licking. Lots of licking.
Nick stiffened, and his hands fell from his pockets into fists at his sides.
Ben caught one little fur ball chewing on his shoelace and lifted it up to look it in the eye, saying, “No, no. That’s not allowed. You better get with the program, kid.”
A sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan came from Nick’s throat, but thankfully was quiet enough to get lost in the confusion of puppy yips and human laughter. His whole body was now rigid; his breath came fast and shallow; and his vision was narrowing to a memory that mingled too intimately with present events.
There had been puppies...little mutts born in the stacks of old supply crates that edged their camp. The brood was adopted by his platoon, and when the mother disappeared—his guys fed and fostered the pups. For them, the pups became personal, something good to relate to in such foreign surroundings, something to care for and protect.
He could still see them...jumping after tennis balls somebody had sent to a war zone in a well-meaning but clueless Christmas package...sleeping sprawled on their backs or curled into sleek little balls that were slid gently into the men’s packs. Some of the little buggers snored or yipped or practiced running in their sleep, which never failed to set him and his men laughing. The bomb dogs assigned to their unit seemed just as enthralled with the puppies as the men they served with were. Jax and Colo, both male shepherds, were downright respectful of the little buggers; brought them balls and shared bones, played tag in the yard, and let the puppies climb and nip—
The blood drained from his head, and suddenly he found it hard to breathe.
He did an about-face and strode out the door and out of the office.
In the parking lot he bent over to recover, taking slow, deep breaths to fight down the anxiety those memories always raised. Gradually, the tightness in his chest subsided and the darkness threatening his vision retreated.
After a few minutes, he was able to take a last, cleansing breath and let it go. It was four-plus years ago and a world away. It had nothing to do with his life now, he told himself every time, but it still weighed on him...a burden he didn’t want to share, especially with Ben.
Squaring his shoulders, he sought normalcy in walking the grassy berm that led to the fenced exercise and introduction areas. There were a number of people about, considering adoption and watching as candidates played with their children. But in the farthest yard, he noticed a young man with an uncooperative dog on a lead, trying to get his charge to cooperate. He watched as the dog became a whirl of motion and the volunteer shrank back to the end of the leash, sputtering a stream of entreaties and anemic commands.
A moment later the dog yanked the lead from the volunteer’s hands and began to run. Nick headed for that far exercise yard, feeling an urgency he couldn’t explain. The dog managed to stop before hitting the fence, but then ran the entire perimeter, frantic for a way out. It was Goldie’s friend. The shepherd. And it seemed like he was getting ready to jump.
“No!” Nick barked out, catching himself and the dog by surprise.
In another heartbeat he was climbing over the fence and standing a few yards from the headstrong shepherd, his feet spread and his fists propped on his hips. The dog hesitated as his gaze flicked between Nick and the nearby fence...ears forward, nose testing the air...escape clearly still a powerful pull on him.
“No,”
