by Lyz Kelley
Caring was in Ashley’s blood, her bones—a virus never to be eradicated.
When Chase approached the snowmobile, she held out her arms for the suffering animal. Chase said nothing, just looked at her with understanding. He settled in front, nestling the dog between, and began the slow descent down the trail. She hadn’t cried when her mother died. She should have, but she’d been so relieved her mom was no longer in pain, she just couldn’t. So why did the tears flow now? She let the tears come, doing nothing to stop them, and held on tight to the dog cradled in her lap.
The dog needed medical assistance and a safe place to recover. She would need Chase’s help, which meant he would see her parents’ house. It couldn’t be helped.
He might judge her. Just like some of the other people in town. But the fact was, her mom had money. Had being the operative word. If Chase didn’t understand, then let him be jealous or resentful.
But somehow she believed he would understand.
Since he’d fixed the stairs, Maggie’s door, and the snowmobile, she trusted him. Besides, Harold had texted her about the heater not working in the studio apartment, and asked if she wanted to borrow his space heater. Chase hadn’t said a word about the heat, and Harold wouldn’t worry about someone he didn’t like. Like Jenna had said, why not let him kick his boots under one of the beds? She did have several not being used.
The dog needed her. To help him, she needed Chase.
That was as simple as it got.
Right or wrong.
Chapter Seven
After loading the sled and dog in the truck, Chase drove them down the mountain road. Ashley sat in the back seat, left a message with the town’s veterinarian, and did everything possible to comfort the dog while providing directions.
Pulling into the driveway of the palatial house—the large estate he spotted from the ridge—he studied Ashley in the rearview mirror. She met his gaze, then directed him to back the truck into a garage.
The four-car garage was immaculately designed, complete with a collection of wrenches and screwdrivers and power tools most men dreamed of owning, but could never afford, all covered in dust, unused. Overhead, two specially designed racks held snowmobiles and other ski equipment. The beat-up VW Bug sat in the far stall.
He turned off the ignition and walked around to the passenger side. Ashley gently relinquished the animal into his care, leading the way to the interior door while the garage door closed. She glanced back to make sure he followed and didn’t require assistance with the dog, and then entered an oversized kitchen, which would have made a perfect spot for a platoon meeting, with plenty of extra room. She took a left into a living room filled with quality leather furniture and a river rock fireplace, and then another left into another, smaller room, just off the main hall.
Ashley pointed to a corner area piled with comforters and sheets. “We’ll settle him there.”
When the animal heard her voice, he thrashed, and Chase tightened his grip, gently lowering the injured dog to the floor.
Ashley immediately reached for the dog’s head, cooing comfort, and sat on the carpet next to a small stone fireplace.
She tried masking her concern, but there was soft sorrow lining her face. Like too many of the medics he’d worked with, she absorbed the patient’s pain, creating a sphere of empathy.
“Can you start a fire?” she asked.
Logs and kindling were conveniently stacked in a metal grate, and a brass holder bolted to the wall held matches. If he couldn’t strike a match, there was something seriously wrong with him.
The oversized family room didn’t look like anyone had used it for a while. Mismatched pictures in various shapes and sizes and styles hung on the walls. A big area rug covered the center of the large room, with a small twin bed shoved to the side. A small oak desk and a wingback chair sat against the opposite wall. Something about the space felt odd, different. The rest of the house appeared open, warm, and tastefully decorated, but this room, even though adequately heated, seemed morbidly chilly with a cold that crept into his bones. He leaned over to strike a long-stick match.
Once the dried pine caught hold, he stood back and watched Ashley stroke the dog’s fur, talking to the animal in a quiet, gentle voice. He couldn’t hear what she said, but it didn’t matter. The dog only cared that he wasn’t alone. Hearing a car arrive, Chase went in search of a door leading to the outside. When he found the right one, he opened the solid, thirteen-foot door.
A guy about the same age as Ashley, carrying a large leather case, slid his way to the front door and paused when he realized something was off. “I was expecting Ash.”
“And you are?”
“Brad Clairemont. Ash texted something about a hurt dog and to bring supplies.”
He expected as much, but the wool overcoat and tan loafers worn without socks raised his guard. Metrosexual didn’t fit the small-town vibe, and the guy’s return scrutiny didn’t sit well, either. An ex-boyfriend, maybe? He didn’t know, and cared more than he should. He would have liked to barricade the door, but he stood aside rather than let the guy stay on the front porch and freeze his delicate, undoubtedly polished toes off.
“This way,” Chase said, closing the door before leading the way down the hall.
Ashley looked up when Chase entered the room. He pointed over his shoulder. “Vet’s here.”
“Hey, Brad. Thanks for coming.”
The guy’s eyes scanned Ashley the way a scanner rolls over a bar code, catching the intricacies of every line. Chase wasn’t amused. In fact, he had the urge to toss the guy out the front door, headfirst into a pile of snow. But he managed to maintain an impressive degree of restraint. It was obvious the vet fancied himself a ladies’ man, and he was glad to see Ashley didn’t buy into the strutting peacock’s act.
Ashley shifted the dog so Brad could take a closer look. After a few minutes of evaluating and assessing and leaning in a bit too close to Ashley, Brad gave the dog a couple of shots, stitched his neck and leg, and bandaged both. He took his time handing Ashley a pill bottle and bags of fluids and syringes, giving specific instructions. Too much time.
Finally, after an eternity of minutes, Brad closed his case. “That dog’s lucky. He wouldn’t have made it through the night. The next twenty-four hours will be critical, Ash. See if you can get him to eat. Right now, you need to keep him warm and calm.”
Ashley’s shoulders pushed back, silently communicating she had no intention of leaving the dog’s side. Chase and Brad looked at each other, understanding passing between them before they stepped into the hall.
The vet handed him a piece of paper. “Here’s a list of supplies needed, but you might want to wait until morning. The dog’s in pretty bad shape.”
“The dog will make it.” The adamant conviction in his tone left no room for argument.
“Just setting realistic expectations.”
“Let’s focus on the positive, shall we?” Before I get arrested putting you out of your designer-jeans misery.
Brad, however, wasn’t totally stupid. He registered the not-so-subtle warning that said, I’m a grenade, and in about ten seconds I’m going to go off, so move out of the way. Without a word, Brad shot out of the house, slipping and sliding on the ice, which suited Chase just fine. Neither Ashley nor the dog would benefit from hearing doubt. Instinct told him if anyone could see the dog through the night, Ashley could. He shoved Brad's list in his pocket, closed the door, and made his way back to the nursing room.
A half-smile formed on Ashley’s lips. “Thank you.”
“For?”
“Believing.”
He crouched in front of her and ran a gentle hand over the dog’s fur. “You heard.”
She rubbed the dog’s stiff black ears between her fingers. “He’ll make it. I know he will.” Her voice quivered. “I’ll give him a bath tomorrow. Tonight I think he needs to settle in. He’s had enough trauma for one day.”
A bag of fluids hung from
a coat hanger on the wall and a tube extended to the dog’s back. Combat training had exposed Chase to needles, syringes, and other sorts of emergency gear. He wondered how such a sweet-faced angel had come to know how to set up a triage kit.
Understanding dawned slowly, like the sunrise lifting into the sky. His gaze moved to the indentations in the carpet where another bed might have been. Her mother’s. A twin bed in the corner. Hers. 24/7. Empathy for what this caring woman had gone through touched his heart, like seeing the hungry children in the streets of Kabul. Witnessing her with the dog, he realized she couldn’t walk away from that dog any more easily than he could leave a wounded buddy.
He pointed at the open closet organized with towels, sheets, and other supplies. “Do you need another blanket or pillow? Can I get you anything to eat? Water?”
She turned her head toward the closet. “Another blanket might be good, and if you don’t mind, a bowl of water for the dog wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
The offers meant for her were brushed aside. He was pretty sure she always put others before her needs, rarely ever considering her own needs or desires first.
He watched the slow rise and fall of the dog's ribcage, trying to decide if the mutt would hold on long enough for him to make it to the store and back. He didn't want Ashley to be alone if the dog died. He squatted and looked into golden-brown eyes. “She’s counting on you to hang in there, okay, buddy? Don’t disappoint the lady. You hear me?”
What he saw in the dog’s eyes gave him hope and assurance. What he saw in her eyes made him want to tug her into his arms and make love to her until the worry went away. “I best get to the store before it closes.” The appreciation in her gaze pleased him more than he wanted to admit. “I’ll find something to put water in for the dog. You sure you don’t need anything before I go?”
“No. I’ll be okay. There’s money in my wallet. Please, take it.”
Not gonna happen. He’d rather be shot than take one cent from her. He tore off a piece of paper from the list Brad had given him and grabbed a pen off the oak desk in the corner. “Here’s my cell number in case you think of something while I’m out.” He placed the number on the desk, then turned to leave, a shudder passing through him as he walked out of the room.
He’d given her his number. Ashley might not have thought much of it, but he never, ever gave his cell number to a female. Even his mom didn’t have it. Driving into town, he considered the handful of people he’d truly allowed in his life, none of them women. For the last two-plus years, he’d found even the simplest relationship with a female too complicated. So why now did he find it easy to get attached to this woman? Maybe because she seemed so sad and vulnerable, and his protective instincts kicked in. Or perhaps because he liked the intense emotions in her eyes—the willingness to help, care, and give of herself.
In the hell he'd lived in for the past several deployments, very little good existed. He wanted to feel all wasn’t lost, that good still existed in the world, but he also didn’t want to taint her with his pain and sorrow.
Right now, he wasn’t whole. Bobby had left a big fucking gap in the middle of his chest, and he couldn’t find a way to fill it. He needed to crawl back out of the trench and keep fighting. But right now he didn’t know how. And he sure as hell didn’t want the muck to stick to anyone else, especially her.
He stared at the Valu-Shop sign, surprised to find he was parked in front. If he’d gotten into a car and driven like that in Afghanistan, he might have not only killed himself, but taken others with him. He needed to strap down his emotions. He closed the truck door and moved to the store's entrance.
“There he is.” Harold raised his hand in greeting when Chase took a step inside the door. “Heard you went snowmobiling today. Great day for it.”
Wow, news travels. “Yep,” Chase acknowledged, but couldn’t get his happy on at the moment. “You got any dog or baby food?”
Harold gave him a wide-eyed, confused look, but he was kind enough not to ask. “Sure do. Back in the left corner.”
Chase picked up a basket and began weaving his way to the back. Spotting the pet section, he entered the aisle, looked at the list, and then at the large bags of dog food, then the small bags, then the cans. He reached for the first bag, then paused, his hand suspended in the air, wondering whether he should get chicken and vegetables or liver and rice. So many choices. He rubbed his hand over the top of his head. Overseas, he got what was available. Once a month, if a soldier got lucky, the mobile PX truck would stop at their location, a friend might get mailed a package with stuff to share, or USO care packages might arrive. He dropped his hand in frustration.
“I think I know how you feel.” He turned to see Harold standing at the end of the aisle. “I felt the same way when I came back from ’Nam. After eating the same crap month after month and coming home to a smorgasbord, I could never get just one thing. I ended up buying one of everything and letting my wife sort it out once I got home. She refused to send me to the store after a while.”
“Is that why you own a store now? You needed to get rid of extra supplies?”
“That’s a smartass remark for someone who’s not too far off the mark.”
Chase liked the understanding smile in the old man’s eyes. He nodded toward the food. “Got any recommendations for an emaciated, injured dog that Ashley’s decided to nurse?”
Harold shook his head. “That girl’s got a heart as deep as the Grand Canyon.”
The old man held out his hand for the list, and Chase happily passed it over.
“Here, take this.” Harold dumped a few cans in the basket and walked to another aisle. “You might need these.” The man began to fill the basket with bags and cans and jars.
“You trying to make Ashley think I’ve lost my mind?”
“If she’s anything like my Claudia, she’ll understand.” The man’s eyes softened at the mention of his wife. “Been married a long time. She’s my miracle.”
A miracle. Chase hadn’t experienced one of those, and wondered if he might be due.
“I should mention, when we were out today, someone was firing off rounds. Seems a bit odd so close to town.”
“Happens now and then. You should tell the sheriff. Joe would want to know.”
“I don’t want any trouble. Maybe when you see him you could mention it to him. Informal, like. We were on the ridge behind the Bryants’ place. Sounded like a Remington 870, same one we use in the Corps. Two shots were fired, no more than five- maybe six-hundred yards out.”
“The sheriff’s brother was killed earlier this year. Authorities are still looking for the guy. I’ll be sure to pass the information along.”
Chase considered the worry in the old man’s eyes, taking note, then slowly shifted his gaze to the cold cabinet filled with assorted packed deli meats and cheeses and other packaged items. “Any recommendations for dinner?”
Ten minutes later, he had a truck filled with groceries at the insistence of Harold, and leftover pot roast and peach cobbler courtesy of Claudia. He draped his wrists over the steering wheel, gazing through the windshield. The clouds had started to clear, and he located the North Star. A small piece of ice had broken off his frozen heart and begun to melt. In this little community, surrounded by people he didn’t know, he felt humbled.
He’d driven into town a stranger and been instantly accepted by the townsfolk of Elkridge, no questions asked. He wasn’t a drunkard or whore’s son, or some stupid kid from New Jersey, or merely a Marine. It might have taken thirty-one years to get here, but he felt accepted—a person of worth.
It had been awhile since he cared about someone else’s opinions.
In fact, he rarely cared what a woman thought, but he certainly cared about what Ashley thought of him.
He wanted Ashley to believe he was one of the good guys because he sure didn’t like her view of him as a Marine, which translated into the equivalent of bad.
Ashley awoke to find Chase sitti
ng in the chair across the darkened room, staring into the fire, lost in thought.
Firelight danced on his face and made him look exotic, and even more handsome, if that was possible. She hadn’t made a sound, but he turned his head and stared into her eyes.
“You’re back,” she said.
“You looked so at ease when I got back from the store. I didn’t want to wake you.”
She touched the edges of the extra blanket covering both her and the dog, and then glanced at the closet, and then Chase. “Thank you for the comforter.” She tugged the blanket a bit higher. “Did you eat?”
“Claudia sent me home with pot roast. There’s more if you want it.”
She didn’t know whose stomach growled, hers or the dog’s, but she needed to get up or she wouldn’t be able to walk in the morning. She’d let the shepherd sleep until the meds wore off, and then would try getting him outside to pee. She had absorbent pads somewhere, but finding additional supplies could wait until morning. She moved the dog’s paw pinning her arm, and then piled extra fabric under the dog’s head. His eyelids lifted.
“It’s okay, Lucky. You’re safe.” The dog’s lids blinked a few times before he relaxed back into slumber.
Chase’s brow lifted. “You named him Lucky?”
“Actually, Brad named him by saying he was lucky to be alive. I figured it fitting.” She studied the leather journal in his hands. “What are you writing?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Nothing. Right.” She couldn’t help the sarcasm dripping like sap, fertilized by her disappointment.
What was it about the Marines that made its members shut out the world around them? They honed their emotions to such a fine point that only small bits of feelings escaped from time to time. On the rare occasions when her dad did come home, he’d often stare into the distance. When asked what he was thinking, he’d give some generic answer, never a real, honest one. She pushed to her feet and headed toward the kitchen.
