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
