Soldier's Rescue. Betina Krahn
dog defied that order, he made a fist and did a biceps curl, snapping the fist to his shoulder. After a tense moment, the dog lowered its rear to the floor. He stared at the dog for a minute, seeming a little surprised it had worked, then went back to starting the IV.
His take-charge attitude in her surgery rankled, but something stopped her from setting him straight. Maybe it was the knowledgeable way his fingers swabbed the shaved area, felt for a vein and carefully inserted the needle. Maybe it was the shepherd’s obedience. Still, she didn’t move until the line was established and he raised the bag, looking for a place to hang it. In the midst of starting the IV, he’d taken off his sunglasses; they were hanging from a shirt pocket.
“Where did you learn to do that?” she asked. His eyes suited his face—big and bold—an arresting light hazel color.
“Iraq.” When she crossed her arms and waited for more, he looked less comfortable. “We had dogs...and...sometimes they got dehydrated.”
“Interesting,” she said after a moment, sensing there was a lot of story behind that terse description. His rescue of these dogs made sense in light of his military experience. Soldiers in combat got close to their canine comrades, and that experience often carried over to civilian life.
Still, this dog was a stray, and whatever time and effort she expended would never show a positive on the practice’s balance sheets. The odds of a favorable outcome were probably just south of fifty-fifty, but she had to do whatever she could to treat the dog.
Annoyed—with him or her own soft-hearted impulses?—she pulled over a pole for the IV and went for the portable X-ray.
Thankfully, this didn’t take much time. Because it was just as she feared: the X-rays showed a hairline in the pelvis and a major compound fracture in the leg. She called her partner, Jess, to come in to help, but the call went straight to voice mail. It was Jess’s night off, and she was probably out with her man-of-the-month.
“I’m afraid if we wait until tomorrow to do the surgery she’ll be in even worse shape,” she said, mostly to herself, while running a hand gently over the golden’s head.
“I can help,” Trooper Stanton said over his shoulder as he washed his hands in the scrub sink. When he turned and propped his hands on his service belt, spreading his elbows enough that his chest strained his shirt. She frowned, wishing he wouldn’t do that and that she wasn’t drawn to watch him do it. Her frown deepened.
“You ever helped with a surgery?”
“Field stuff. Stitching sometimes. Mostly wrap and run.” He cocked his head, watching her decide. “I’m not a fainter.”
“I would guess not,” she said under her breath. Decision made, she turned to the shelves along the far wall to pull surgical supplies. Halfway there, she stopped dead, confronted by a shepherd braced for action. “Um, we may have a problem here.”
Trooper Stanton scowled and then ordered the shepherd to the table where his injured companion lay. The dog approached cautiously, rose with one paw against the table and sniffed his friend.
“She’s going be okay, tough guy, but you have to give the doc here room to work.” He strode to a nearby door, flipped on a light inside the exam room, then shoved the shepherd in. The instant the door closed between them, there were thumps against the door and barks of protest. Stanton drew a deep breath. “It’s for the best.”
Jess, Kate’s partner, was a big gal, but even the large gloves she used were a tight fit on the trooper. To his credit, he didn’t complain, and he held the anesthetic mask properly and paid scrupulous attention to Kate’s directions.
She described the damage and the basis for her decision-making at each step as they went in. There wasn’t much to do with the cracked pelvis; nature would have to take care of that. But the broken leg had to be held in position while she pinned the bones, and he supplied the necessary muscle without a twitch. Twice she paused to listen to the golden’s heart and pronounced it within safe limits.
More than an hour later, they finished cleaning and closing the last cuts on the dog’s hindquarters. She injected antibiotics and pain meds into the IV and watched for any reaction. As she hoped, there was none.
“Well, that’s it,” she declared, ripping off her gloves and stuffing them, along with the bloody drapes and used instrument packs, into the garbage can. “It’s up to her now. You want to help me move her?”
They picked up the blanket she lay on by the corners and transferred the dog onto a low shelf where she could be monitored while being out of the way. “Our version of the recovery room,” she explained with a wry smile.
She checked the dog’s heart and lungs again, then rose to find Trooper Nick Stanton staring through the window, his expression as dark as the night outside.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He seemed oddly subdued as he gestured to the door of the nearby exam room where a thud and some growls reminded them there was still another problem to solve. “What about him?”
She chewed her lip as she studied the door and then looked back at her patient. “Maybe we should let him see she’s all right. Then we could put him in a run for the night. I’ll take him back to the shelter tomorrow.”
The shepherd shot out into the surgery and followed the trooper’s direction to where the golden lay recovering. He sniffed her head to toe, seemed to understand her condition was grave and began to pace. Kate snagged a leash from the rack by the waiting-room door and approached the dog in a calm manner. She managed to get the leash over his head before he bolted.
Stanton 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