by JoAnn Ross
His photos had gone on to be collected in a book published by USNI, the U.S. Naval Institute. Then two books. Then three. Since they’d been taken while he’d been in the Marines, he didn’t receive any royalties, but he hadn’t joined the service to get rich. Nor had he taken his photos with money in mind.
His mission, as he’d seen it, had been to tell the truth. To be a witness to war. And he’d been damn good at his job. Unfortunately, after eighteen straight months in Iraq and Afghanistan, he’d returned to the States with an unexpected and annoying case of PTSD.
It hadn’t been enough to have him in danger of going off on a shooting rage. Or feel suicidal. Nor had he turned to alcohol or drugs for relief. He’d just shut down, clamped the lid on his emotions even tighter.
When his tour of duty came to an end, he’d opted out of reenlisting. After stepping back into civilian life, he’d intended to take at least a year away from his camera. Unfortunately, two weeks into that plan, he’d discovered that when he wasn’t working, nightmares and flashbacks attacked with a vengeance.
When his agent (and who the hell ever suspected a guy from a small South Carolina Lowcountry town would end up with a high-powered New York City agent?) suggested he do a pictorial study of American life during wartime, to contrast with the more involved home-front behavior during the Vietnam and World War II eras, he’d agreed.
Not only could he use the money; even more appealing was that the work didn’t involve actually interacting with people.
He’d bought a motor home and a Jeep to pull behind it, then started out in Maine, where he’d photographed fishermen clad in plaid shirts and ball caps protesting low lobster prices. He shot a coal miner in Pennsylvania, face and hands as black as tar, smoking a cigarette after a long day belowground, and a young couple exchanging vows on a Florida beach, while black clouds, heralding an oncoming hurricane, roiled behind them.
After months on the road, he’d wandered his way though the continental states, not having any preplanned itinerary, just going wherever the mood moved him. Which was definitely out of his comfort zone after all the years of planning a mission to the nth degree.
Oregon was his forty-seventh state, and he couldn’t deny that, with the exception of the wedding photos, so far it was his favorite, with its scenic contrasts of high desert ranching country, orchards and rolling farmland, soaring, snowcapped mountains, lush vineyards, fishing harbors, and rugged coast.
He was on his way to his next stop—Washington. Then the plan was to head up to Alaska before the snow started falling, then finally park the motor home and fly to Hawaii to wrap up the project.
A few miles out of town, he pulled the rig over onto a scenic overlook. While he had no interest in postcard scenic shots of lighthouses and sunsets, down below, on the beach, a group of senior citizens was climbing off a tour bus. All were wearing name tags and were dutifully walking—in perfect step, as if they were shouting out cadences in their heads—in dual lines.
The rigid uniformity of their behavior in such a wild, untamed place interested him enough that he took out his camera, snapped on the long lens, and was about to shoot when an old beater Ford Econoline came pulling up from the other direction.
Damn. One thing Gabe hated about taking photos in the civilian world was that unlike in war zones, where both troops and locals were trying to stay alive, he’d often draw an audience. People always wanted to ask questions and compare cameras, and, God help him, in this age of digital, often insisted on showing the snapshots they’d taken.
He lowered his cone of silence, but for some reason, the inner alarm system that had kept him and his fellow Marines alive on more than one occasion kicked into full alert mode. Even the hair on his arms rose.
Assuring himself it was merely the coastal breeze blowing in from the ocean, he regained focus and lifted his camera just as the door to the van opened.
He snapped quickly, instinctively, without bothering with f-stops and focus, before whoever had stopped could interrupt. But instead of a person, a small ball of black fur was thrown out.
It rolled, like a hedgehog, right up to the stone wall, which kept it from going over the cliff.
“Hey!” he yelled.
The van door closed and the car took off with a squeal of wheels and the acrid burning scent of rubber.
Unfortunately, the black ball, which turned out to be a dog, managed to scramble back on its feet and damned if it didn’t race after the van with amazing speed, considering its size.
The driver of the van swerved.
Now Gabe was running, as well.
The van ran over the dog, amazingly seeming not to hit it. But something—the collar?—caught on the underside of the vehicle, dragging the animal a good ten feet before it finally dropped off with a sickening thud.
Undeterred and showing a determination far beyond its size, the small black dog scrambled to its feet and raced after the van as it sped away.
Concerned it was going to get run over in the busy tourist traffic, Gabe sprinted after it, scooping it up under his arm like a football.
“Hey, buddy,” he said as the dog wiggled to get free, “it’s going to be okay.”
Maybe it was something in his voice. Maybe it was because the dog realized the impossibility of catching the van, which had disappeared around a tight S curve. Maybe it was just flat-out tired of running.
Because it looked up at Gabe through a tangle of matted fur, huge round eyes like marbles, as if to say, “Well? Now what do we do?”
4
While Charity never took any surgery for granted, some admittedly were dicier than others. Which was why, as she walked into the operating room she’d painted an uplifting buttercup color that filled the room with sunshine on the cloudiest of Oregon coast days, she was grateful that she’d spared no expense in this part of the building.
Raiding her savings account, she’d sprung for a hydraulic heated table along with a troweled-on epoxyquartz floor that made cleanup easier. Unlike surgeons who operated on humans—with several assistants, separate anesthesiologists, extra nurses on standby to give IV fluids—veterinarians were, by necessity, highly skilled at successfully making do with what little they might have.
Sort of, Charity considered, her mind uncharacteristically drifting back to the wedding photographer, the way Marines were reported to be.
Unlike the windowless box she’d operated in back at the large, multivet clinic in Chicago, this room boasted large windows that offered a view of the emerald green exercise lawn and contemplation garden she’d had the landscaper create.
Not only did the plants, waterfall, and koi pond make a restful place to eat lunch; the garden also provided serenity for stressed-out owners and animals. Especially those owners with beloved pets facing euthanasia. Which, on nice days, could actually be done outside amid so much soothing nature.
So, although her surgical unit might not compare with those depicted on ER and Grey’s Anatomy, it was her dream clinic. She couldn’t imagine ever leaving it, or Shelter Bay.
A recent Oregon State University graduate, Amie was learning the ropes of the business while waiting to get into veterinarian school. What many people didn’t realize was that since there were only twenty-seven vet schools in the country, acceptance was actually more difficult than getting into medical school. This was also her assistant’s first time to witness a C-section. Charity hoped she’d look back on it with excitement, rather than regret.
“Bulldogs have, unfortunately, been bred to have large blocky heads.” Although the dog was already floating on soft clouds of calming anesthetic, Charity patted the patient’s huge head to give it an encouraging rub before sticking the IV needle into the shaved spot of her front leg, which would allow her to administer anesthesia before inserting the breathing tube. Efficient as always, Amie had already hung the bags of fluids on the metal rack.
“That’s what makes them look so cool,” her assistant said.
“It definit
ely gives them their individuality, but the downside is that bulldog puppies’ big heads are more likely to get stuck. Which is why C-sections are the safest way to deliver.”
Charity felt a flash of anger at whatever cretin had abandoned the poor pregnant dog. Then tamped it down because she needed a cool head. “Anesthesia for this surgery is tricky, because we want muscle relaxation and don’t want the mama to experience pain, but on the other hand, the goal is to get the babies out fast before they absorb too much from their mother’s blood.”
“Plus, you want the mom to be awake as quickly as possible, so she can nurse.”
Charity shot her assistant a rewarding smile. “You’ve been studying up.”
“I told you I aced my GRE.”
Grades and test scores were one thing. But empathy for both the animals and the people who owned them—something Amie displayed on a daily basis—was equally important.
“You’re going to be a great vet.”
“Tell that to the dean. Maybe he’ll move me up the list to get into vet school.”
“I wish I had some influence. But most of us go through the same thing. Which maybe is a good thing, because it gives us time to really consider if the job’s right for us.”
“I’ve known since I was five and began bandaging my stuffed animals that I wanted to be a vet. But if I have to wait, working with you is turning out to be a bonus and it sure beats dealing blackjack at the casino. Not only am I going to have a head start when I finally get into the classroom—you’ve taught me so much about the human side of being a vet. Watching you interact with people has made me even more sure of my decision.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
It was also good to hear because even with what Charity was paying her, Amie would be leaving school with huge debts. Loving her work would make them easier to pay off. Not that student loans had been a problem for Charity, thanks to an inheritance from her maternal grandfather. But she’d watched so many classmates struggle.
Although Amie’s mother was a doctor and her father a lawyer, both had chosen to live on the Siletz reservation and were active in the community. Her mother was a member of the tribal council and her father did legal work for the casino and lobbied for Native American rights. Which didn’t earn either of them what they could have made if they’d moved to private-sector jobs in the city. But they’d obviously passed down the values of dedication to vocation, along with personal responsibility, to their daughter.
“It wasn’t sucking up,” Amie said.
“I know.” Charity switched to a safer gas anesthetic. “But, hey, if you’re going to suck up, who better to suck up to than your boss?”
They both laughed at that idea.
Since the radiography had shown six puppies, all fortunately alive, Charity needed to move swiftly. Not making matters easier was the fact that the mother was a “golden paws” dog—too elderly to be safely giving birth.
She opened the extended abdomen. “First thing is to inspect the uterus for tears, or adhesions. And make sure we’re not dealing with infection or other problems.”
She stepped aside to let Amie view the open cavity.
“Looks good to me,” the assistant said with a confidence that would serve her well in her own practice someday.
Maybe they’d even become partners down the road, once Amie got her DVM. The slower pace here on the remote Oregon coast had Charity seriously considering a less workaholic lifestyle that allowed more time for pleasure. Like roasting marshmallows over a campfire on the beach. Hiking in the forest. She loved sitting on her front porch and watching the sailboats skim across the waters of the bay. Maybe she’d take up sailing.
The idea was appealing. But at the moment, she had a job to do.
“Okay. Here we go.” She pulled the Y-shaped uterus, which was filled with pups packed in rows along the horns.
“That is so cool.” Amie looked as awestruck as Charity herself had been the first time she’d seen the squirming fetuses eager to come into the world.
“It never fails to amaze me,” Charity agreed.
She made a slit in the wall and began extracting the puppies, one by one. Amie quickly took each one away, cleared their airways, and stimulated them in a warmed box filled with blankets. Before long, the sextuplets were squirming, breathing, and mewling.
After spaying the dog to avoid future pregnancies, Charity stitched up the long line on the already deflated abdomen.
“Not exactly a bikini scar,” she told the sedated bulldog. “But you did get a nice tummy tuck out of the deal.”
One danger of a cesarean was that the dog could be groggy and accidentally lie down on a pup and suffocate it. Since the sedative Charity had chosen was designed to leave the system quickly, soon she, Amie, and Janet were standing over the box, watching, as the mother, whom Janet had named Winnie, nursed her hungry babies.
“It’s a miracle,” Amie said on a long, happy sigh.
“Absolutely,” Charity and Janet agreed. Charity was also relieved that the dog’s maternal instincts were so strong. Another problem with forgoing a natural birth was that occasionally, not understanding how those puppies got there, a mother dog might not accept them. Fortunately, that was not the case this time.
“Next up, finding Winnie a home,” Charity said.
She’d already managed to place the puppies, one of which was going to Sax Douchett’s fiancée’s young son as a surprise birthday present. But elderly dogs were always more of a problem.
“Sofia De Luca was in earlier with Rosemary,” Janet revealed.
The upbeat mood in the room plunged at that announcement. Sofia was an elderly widowed gardener who’d searched the world to create one of the most extensive herb gardens in the Pacific Northwest, if not the country. Although her Lavender Hill Farm was routinely featured in gardening, cooking, and lifestyle magazines, she appeared to have never let the glowing reviews go to her head. Rosemary was her golden retriever, whom Charity had recently diagnosed with metastatic cancer.
“How was she?”
“Sofia or Rosemary?”
“Both.” Sofia De Luca was the most optimistic person Charity had ever met. Despite suffering the tragedies of losing her daughter and son-in-law in a plane crash and, more recently, her husband to cancer, she still managed to maintain an optimistic enthusiasm for life. Along with the energy of a woman half her age. But Charity also knew the emotional toll a terminal pet could have on its owner.
“Sofia seems resigned. Rosemary’s thin, losing fur, coughing, and urinated on the floor without seeming to realize she’d done it. But that didn’t stop her from greeting Peanut with a tail wag and a good sniffing. Which Sofia took as a sign the dog’s still got a few more days in her.”
“Sofia’s a wise, thoughtful woman. She’ll make the decision when the time’s right.”
“I know,” Amie agreed. “Which is why I sent her home with another packet of those pain meds you prescribed.”
“Good call.” Although the golden’s unrelenting good nature kept her from revealing signs of discomfort, Charity knew she had to be experiencing it.
Charity glanced over at the pups, eagerly suckling on their patient mom, who appeared to have been through this before.
“Sofia and Winnie have a lot in common,” she considered. “They’ve both been through a lot and landed on their feet.” Four feet in the bulldog’s case.
“And neither one is young,” Janet pointed out.
Another point in matching them up.
Early on in her practice, Charity had discovered that often the elderly, especially those without family, worried about taking on the responsibility of a younger pet they might end up leaving behind.
“It’s going to be a while before the pups are weaned and Winnie’s on her own. Which gives us time to think about suggesting an adoption. But it’s definitely something to keep in mind.”
The C-section taken care of, Charity stayed downstairs to monitor Winnie and
her newborns after Amie and Janet left for the day.
She thought about Winnie. And Sofia. And poor sweet Rosemary, whose time on earth was growing short.
Life and death. Wasn’t that the circle of life that Charity had chosen to constantly live with?
Looking down at the temporarily blind and deaf puppies instinctively snuggling up to their mother for warmth and comfort, Charity felt a distant tug she couldn’t quite define.
5
The mutt was a mess. Not only filthy, with fur tangled into mats, but probably flea-ridden, as well. Which meant that putting him into his rig would probably end up giving the fleas a whole new home.
But after he’d lived with the nasty sand fleas in Afghanistan and Iraq, it wouldn’t be anything new. Plus, he still had a jar of Combat-Ready Balm no Marine stationed in what had to be the holy land of sand fleas was ever without.
Not knowing the name of the vet he’d talked with briefly at the wedding, Gabe did a GPS search for the nearest clinic. Then, making a U-turn, he followed the automated female voice’s instructions back into Shelter Bay.
The clinic, which, from the outside, looked more like a Victorian bed-and-breakfast, was located at the far end of the harbor. A simple white wooden sign read HARBORVIEW VETERINARY CLINIC, DR. CHARITY TIERNAN, DVM, DAVSAB.
Gabe left the dog in the motor home, in case the office was closed, and walked up the steps to the wide front porch. The white Adirondack chairs next to potted flowers added to the B and B look and offered a spectacular view of the harbor. According to the hours posted on the front window, which had been brightened with a colorful glass sun catcher, the clinic was closed. But below that, a note invited people to ring the bell after hours.
So he did.
Less than a minute later, the door opened. And hot damn, there she was. The woman from the wedding.
She’d undone the clip holding her dark hair back, allowing it to fall loose over her shoulders. She’d also changed into a pair of pink and purple striped pajama bottoms and an oversized T-shirt that read, I Sleep with Dogs. A huge animal, which looked more like a polar bear than a dog, stood by her side. Not growling or bristling, but it was obvious he was there to protect his mistress.
