His Rodeo Sweetheart. Pamela Britton
beneath the line of trees a hundred or so yards away, the fence posts that held it in place stained gray with age. To the left of the house sat a line of kennels, at least a half dozen of them, more than one Belgian Malinois pacing inside, all of them barking up a storm. Well, all except one. He suspected that was Thor, but for now he had eyes only for Janus.
His hands gripped the steering wheel. It’d been tough saying goodbye. Tougher still to see him again. He missed Trev more than he would have thought possible given the short time they’d known each other. Then again, combat will do that to a person: make brothers out of near strangers.
“Welcome,” Claire said as she stepped out of her truck.
He’d parked next to her, along the left side of her house, almost in front of the kennels. He got out and stood by the side of the truck, the smell of dirt and oak trees and fresh-cut grass so predominant that for a moment all he did was inhale.
He caught her staring at him curiously. “Nice place.”
She had her hand on her son’s head again, bending down to say something.
“But I want to watch him with Thor,” her son said.
“In a minute,” he heard her murmur.
The boy’s head bowed. His shoulders slumped. He did everything but kick at a rock, but he did as she asked, muttering something under his breath, something about Hawkman.
His gaze must have reflected his puzzlement because she smiled. “His immune system still isn’t up to par.” Her smile faded a bit. “He thinks I’m stupid for wanting him to go inside and wash his hands after we’ve been out and about.”
“So he’s threatening to have Hawkman come after you?”
The smile turned back on. “He’s a friend of the family.”
“You have a superhero for a friend?” For the first time since his arrival, he felt like smiling, too. “Wow. I’m impressed.”
Something low and soft that he recognized as a laugh filled the air. “Not really. We’re friends with Rand Jefferson.” She shook her head. “The actor that plays the superhero in the movies. It’s a long story.”
“Maybe you can tell it to me after I say hello to an old friend.”
“Yeah, sure.” Her smile seemed to have a short in it because it fizzled. “He’s over there.”
“I know.”
Janus had spotted him. He could tell by the way the dog’s eyes had fixated on him, his whole body having gone still, as if he silently tried to telepathically commune with his old friend. He knew what he would say.
Where have you been? What are you doing here? Where’s Trevor?
He didn’t have an answer for the dog.
“Platz,” he ordered sternly as dog after dog jumped up on the fence of their loafing sheds. Janus just stood there, as if he tried to reassure himself through sight and smell that it really was his master’s old friend. Then he shifted his gaze past Ethan, as if hoping to spot Trev.
He nearly stumbled.
I keep looking for him, too.
You deployed with someone. You see them day in and day out. You drink beers with them, you shoot pool with them, you even go on leave together once or twice. And then—bam—just not there. He still couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t imagine how Janus felt.
“How are you?” he asked the dog, flipping up the latch that kept the front gate closed. “Good to see you again, buddy.”
The familiar words set the dog’s tail in motion. He still glanced behind Ethan again, then he sat down in front of him.
Ethan smiled. This, too, was familiar. 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