by Betina Krahn
He has to find good in the world again...
Warmhearted Kate Everly is a veterinarian with a special love for dogs. But she’s about to find out if her inner strength and unique “puppy whisperer” skills extend to healing wounded humans, too.
Florida state trooper Nick Stanton, a struggling single dad, is former military, and his army exploits led him to avoid dogs with a passion. Then a fateful rescue on a lonely back road brings the veteran and the veterinarian together over a gravely injured dog. Before long, Kate has her hands and heart full with a man coming to terms with his traumatic past...
“I think he’s depressed,” Nick said. “It happens to military dogs when they lose their handler. They lose interest in training...forget how to play.”
“I’ve heard about that, but never treated it.” Kate watched the shepherd. “Well, now that we know more about him, we can handle him better and start to rehab him. Who knows? Maybe we’ll even find him a forever home.”
Ben looked up at her. “A forever home?”
“That’s what we call it when a dog finds people who will love it and make it a part of their family for the rest of its life. A forever home.”
There was a heartbeat’s pause. “So...some homes aren’t forever?” Ben’s eyes darkened as the meaning of that hit him. “Some people get dogs, then decide they don’t want them anymore and just...” He glanced up at his dad, then jumped down from the fence and headed for the sanctuary office.
Kate stared after him, speechless. She would never have expected to hear such hurt from a vibrant and seemingly well-adjusted child. Had she totally misread Ben’s relationship with his father?
“What was that about?” she asked Nick.
“It’s not exactly a secret.” Nick’s tone flattened as he spoke. “Ben’s mother left us after I returned from my last deployment. He had just turned four. He doesn’t talk about it or about her. But sometimes...it comes out.”
“So his mother is...”
“Not in the picture.” He produced a tight, humorless smile. “It’s just him and me.”
Dear Reader,
Animals have always been a big part of our family life, especially dogs. When the last of our beloved schnauzers passed away, we felt the loss keenly, but weren’t sure we wanted to go through another puppyhood. We searched online adoption sites for an older dog and found a golden retriever that touched our hearts. When we went to meet the dog, we found the “rescue” to be a very odd place that had household items stacked on upper and lower porches. But our attention went to the sweet golden girl who was to become our Gracie. After taking a short walk around the yard with us, she headed for our car and stood beside it as if to say, “Let’s go home, guys.”
Gracie is loving, attentive, mannerly and a world-class food mooch. But it was clear from certain behavior that she had been abused in her former life—she was frightened of human feet and cowered whenever we approached with something in our hands, even a food dish. With time and love, she has grown more confident.
Then one day we opened the local paper to find that the “rescue” where we had gotten Gracie was being investigated for animal hoarding. The stacks of household stuff were a symptom of good intentions gone terribly wrong. As the story played out, we watched on the evening news as volunteers removed animals from the place, and we could hardly believe what we saw. That experience led me to do eye-opening research. When a new shelter opened in our county, I knew I had to write about the people who give so much of themselves to make the world a better, safer place for animals. And about how rescuing an animal can sometimes rescue us.
I hope you enjoy this story of the veteran and the veterinarian!
Betina Krahn
Soldier’s Rescue
New York Times Bestselling Author
Betina Krahn
Bestselling author Betina Krahn is a mother of two and owner of two (humans and canines, respectively) and the creator of dozens of satisfying happily-ever-afters. Her historical romances have received numerous reviewer’s choice and lifetime achievement awards and have appeared regularly on bestseller lists, including the USA TODAY and New York Times lists. Her books have been called sexy, warm, witty and even wise. But the description that pleases her most is “funny”—because she believes the only thing the world needs as much as it needs love is laughter. Visit her online at www.betinakrahn.com to learn more about her and her books.
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For Kate and Nicholas
May each of you find a love that helps you become the person you are meant to be.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT FROM DEAL OF A LIFETIME BY T. R. MCCLURE
CHAPTER ONE
TO HELL WITH speed limits.
He was driving on a dry, sunlit back road without another vehicle in sight, the perfect place to open it up and make time. And he was already late.
Florida trooper Nicholas Stanton put his foot down hard on the gas and felt his senses make a corresponding shift into overdrive. He registered the wire fences along the sides of the county road, hummocks of scrub palmetto and stubborn live oaks, cattle grazing and smatterings of cowbirds and egrets around farm ponds. Heat radiated visibly off the worn macadam, and of habit, he touched the air-conditioner controls—which were already set on high. Barely five minutes went by before he spotted something in the road ahead.
“Sh—crap.” He was trying to work on expletives. He was a single dad with a kid who was all eyes and ears. And who was playing in his first ever soccer game in exactly—he glanced at his watch—fifteen f—frickin minutes. As he crested a small rise, he could see far enough to know he had to take his foot off the gas. The big engine of the cruiser whined as it slowed, and when he topped the final rise, there they were.
Dogs. One lying smack in the middle of the road with the other standing over it.
“Aw, hell.” Nick slammed on the brakes and came to a jarring stop twenty feet from where they blocked the center of the narrow two-lane road. He paused for a minute, breathing hard and taking in the situation. He could probably slide around them on the berm, but he could see a drop-off into a concrete culvert just ahead—and those dogs would still be here when some local came shooting down the road at breakneck speed. With a growl, he pulled his front wheels over the centerline and flipped on his light bar.
It was his job to make sure accidents like that didn’t happen.
He stepped out into the heat, his shirt sticking to his back, and donned his Florida Highway Patrol hat against the still-fierce evening sun. He stood for a moment with his legs spread and his hands on his belt.
Dogs. It would be dogs.
He took two steps toward them, and the standing dog—a bla
ck-and-tan German shepherd, thin and rangy—sprang in front of its companion. Its ears were up, nostrils flared, and a low growl reverberated deep in its chest. In full protection mode. The downed dog had long reddish-gold hair and a pretty face...golden retriever for sure.
Nick watched the shepherd’s eyes, sensing he was being sized up even as he was assessing the dogs. He’d seen that wary body language dozens of times in Iraq and Afghanistan. Muscles weren’t tensed to launch—yet—but every nerve in that lean body was firing in preparation. Closer now, he could see scars on the shepherd’s face.
“Tough guy, huh.” He took a deep breath, determined to get it over with. “Well, I’ve seen my share of action, too. You got a buddy down, and if you want me to take a look, you’re going to have to back off. Now.”
When he moved in, a full-blown snarl came from the shepherd. But as Nick hoped, the dog backed up a step, then two, still growling, glancing fiercely between Nick and his wounded friend. They were both thin and looked like they had been on their own for a while, but the shepherd, at least, seemed to know something about humans. Not entirely feral.
Nick kept one eye on the shepherd as he knelt cautiously beside the golden and surveyed the damage. Female. There was blood on her hindquarters, and a rear leg was canted at an odd angle. A glance across the worn pavement showed spatters of blood, some not fully dried; the accident had happened here and not long ago.
Aw, damn. She didn’t even have the energy to drag herself off the road.
He ran his hands gently over the golden’s side, avoiding the shepherd’s gaze and the blood on the injured dog’s rear quarters. Her ribs were prominent but seemed intact. The dog lifted her head and opened her eyes.
“It’s all right, girl. It’s all right. Just checking you out.” He held out his hand for her to sniff, and she gave a couple of feeble thumps with her tail before dropping her head and falling back into a half-conscious state.
She’d be dead before long unless he did something. There was a new shelter in the east part of the next county...
If he thought about it too much, he’d make himself crazy.
“Just do it,” he muttered irritably.
Instinct took over. He stalked back to his cruiser, retrieved a thick wool blanket from the trunk and opened the cruiser’s back door. He covered the bloody rear of the golden with the blanket and lifted her carefully into his arms. She was fifty pounds of deadweight, but didn’t protest at being moved, though it had to be painful as hell. He managed to slide both her and enough of his shoulders into the back of the vehicle to position her on the seat so that her hindquarters would be supported.
As he withdrew from the car, the shepherd shoved past him into the footwell of the back seat.
“Hey!”
The shepherd gave him only a glance before sniffing and nosing his injured companion. Nick stood braced across the door frame, watching. God knew what would happen to the dog if he was left here alone. Big, alert brown eyes searched him. The trust Nick saw—or imagined—in those eyes caused an unwelcome tightness in his chest.
Dogs. Why the hell did it have to be dogs?
“All right,” he snapped, rationalizing the only course his troubled feelings would allow. “You go, too. The public will probably be safer with you off the streets.”
He closed the back door, slid behind the wheel of the cruiser and took off. He was halfway to the county line when he remembered why he’d been flying low earlier and felt his stomach clench.
“Sorry about the game, Ben.”
* * *
ALL IT TOOK was a touch.
The little balls of fur sensed something warm and good and migrated toward her, climbing sightlessly over each other, tumbling, mewling.
“It’s okay, little Mama,” Kate Everly, DVM, said as the dirty, matted schnauzer sat up anxiously to watch the calm, soft-spoken stranger kneeling beside her. Even if Kate hadn’t had a special knack for reassuring animals, the mother dog was too depleted from whelping to do much more than worry. “I’m just going to check your babies.”
With a sniff of the back of Kate’s hand, the mother looked up at the humans standing around the old cardboard box and sank back with resignation. Kate picked up the puppies, one by one, and gave each a thorough examination.
She felt the pudgy little legs and soft pink pads of the feet of each of the four puppies, then she turned them over and checked their abdomens and listened to their hearts. Afterward she settled them against their mother, who sighed and lay back in the newspaper bedding as the last pup recognized her scent and began rooting for milk.
“They’re in pretty good shape, actually,” Kate said, rising from the floor of the makeshift surgery she and her partner, Jess Preston, had created in the kitchen of the old farmhouse that had become the headquarters of Harbor Animal Rescue. She swiped her shoulder-length hair back with her wrist as she headed for the old porcelain sink to wash her hands.
“For puppy mill escapees, you mean.” Nance Everly, one of the shelter’s founders and not-so-coincidentally Kate’s grandmother, stood over the box with crossed arms and a scowl. Nance was a tall, straight-backed woman of seventy with silky white hair and a faced tanned and lined by years of outdoor life in Florida. “Look at the mother. She’s a mess. Filthy, undernourished—it’s a miracle she survived their birth.”
“But she with us now. We feed ’em good,” volunteer Hines Jackson said, bending stiffly beside the box and letting the mother sniff his hand before running it down her back and side. “She gonna be okay. She got good bones.”
Kate finished drying her hands and leaned a hip against the worn laminate countertop stacked with jars and tins of first-aid supplies. “Who dropped them off? Anybody see this time?”
“Nope. Just opened the office door and there they were. A box full of scared-and-needy.” Nance’s face darkened. “Damned criminals. Breeding these dogs dry of health and hope, keeping them caged and forcing them to bear litter after litter—”
“Preachin’ to the choir, Everly,” Hines said with a knowing glance at Kate, who gave a rueful smile. This was one of Nance’s hot buttons.
“There you are.” Janice Winters, a uniformed officer from Sarasota Animal Control, stuck her head in the doorway, wearing a look of disbelief. “Got a real beaut this time.” She led them out of the surgery and into the main reception room, where a russet brown heap of fur sat on an old blanket. The creature turned its head to them, and with the reference point of two dark eyes Kate was able to make out the head of a dachshund. On steroids.
Or carbs. Lots and lots of carbs.
“Good Lord,” Nance said, walking around the beast. “I’ve seen a lot of stuff in my time, but this—”
Silence fell as they took stock individually. The dog peered anxiously from one to another of them, looking like it was trying to move, but couldn’t.
“Where on earth did you find it?” Kate asked, sinking to her knees and letting the dog nose her hand before running it over the bulbous shape. The fat was appalling; it distorted every aspect of the doxie’s body and all but prevented the animal from walking. The poor thing’s stomach scraped the ground and, from what she could see, was scoured raw from its attempts to move.
“In an alley across from the Westfield Mall,” Officer Winters said, shaking her head. “We got a call from a woman driving by and went out to investigate. I’ve never seen anything like it. I mean, how long would it take to feed a dog that much? He must weigh—fifty, sixty pounds?”
Kate helped Hines drag the blanket and the dachshund into the surgery and then slide him onto the scale.
“Fifty-two, actually.” She shook her head. “Enough for three dachshunds. What kind of human being would do this to a dog? Let’s get him up on the table and see about that belly.” She motioned for Hines to help, and together they lifted the dog onto the exa
m table. He struggled when they rolled him, but fat-bound as he was, he was as helpless as an overturned turtle. He was indeed a male, and Hines chuckled and christened him “Moose.”
“We have to put you on a diet, Moose,” Kate said, cleaning and then spreading salve over his abraded belly. “And when we get you nice and healthy, we’ll find you a forever home.” When she finished listening to his heart and lungs, they turned him over and she took blood samples and checked his joints, which were, amazingly, intact. “He’s in surprisingly good shape,” she told her grandmother and the animal control officer standing in the surgery’s doorway. “Except for the thirty pounds of extra lard he’s hauling around.” She stroked his head to reassure him, then took his head between her hands and looked him in the eye.
“We’re going to take care of you, fella.” Her magic worked; the dachshund relaxed, sniffed and then licked at her hand. “We’ll find somebody to foster you and—”
“Me,” Hines said, his dark eyes glowing and his jaw set in a way that said there was no arguing with him. “He comin’ home with me.”
“You sure, Hines?” Isabelle Conti, the shelter’s director, glanced at the aging volunteer’s arthritic hands. “He’s going to take a lot of work.”
“I never been afraid of work, Izzy. Old Moose here needs me. Who knows, maybe I need him, too.” He moved to the head of the table and petted the dog. “I hope you like green beans, old son.” He laughed as the dog eagerly nosed and licked his leathery hand. “’Cause you gonna be eating plenty of ’em.”
They helped Hines put Moose and some supplies in his lovingly maintained 1987 Lincoln Continental and watched as he drove slowly out of the sanctuary’s gravel parking lot.
The lowering sun was painting golden edges on the rose and purple clouds lining the western horizon, and Kate paused to appreciate the gentled light and listen to the rustle of the nearby palms. She slid her hands into her back pockets and lifted her face to the breeze.
