Maybe he could convince her to give him two nights? Possibly a week. An aberration from his usual MO, sure, but she was an aberration. Someone he’d known since childhood. He shouldn’t just bang, bail and oh, well. And it wasn’t like she had her hopes and dreams pinned on a commitment. The night she’d come to him, she’d asked for sex, nothing more.
A wealth of oak and hickory trees replaced the line of buildings. The tops seemed to reach the sky, shielding the golden glow of the moon. He—
Snap.
The sound of a breaking limb.
Daniel dived to the ground, at the same time reaching for his Glock. Over the years, his eyesight had grown accustomed to the dark; he could now pick up details other people missed. Though he expected to see enemy forces marching closer…he saw a dog? He—she?—hobbled out from behind a bush, spotted him and froze, utterly petrified.
He took a moment to breathe as his too-tight throat loosened. This wasn’t hostile territory. No threat advanced. But someone did need his help.
As he stood, the dog bolted, only to whimper and stop.
Cooing in a gentle voice, hoping to soothe the animal, he closed the distance. A Chihuahua. He/she cowered and peed in the grass.
“I’m not going to hurt you, little guy…girl?” Daniel used the flashlight app on his phone. Girl. Both of her back legs were mangled but scabbed. She’d been attacked, probably days ago.
What had gotten her? Coyotes ran rampant out here. So did shit humans willing to use innocent animals as bait in a dogfight.
Rage scalded him. Another whimper; she must sense the darkness of his emotions.
Daniel breathed in, out, and forced himself to calm. He knew nothing about dogs, but he’d dealt with plenty of scared, wounded soldiers. Easing beside her, he started talking. He told her all about his day, even about Dorothea, allowing her to get used to his presence. After a while, she stopped cowering and weakly nuzzled his hand.
Right—that—second. She broke his freaking heart. How long since she’d been petted? Or fed?
His mother had been afraid of dogs, no matter their size, and he remembered one of his high school girlfriends complaining about her parents’ pet. Filthy creature, she’d said with a sneer. Always chews on my shoes and poops in my closet.
Actions unhurried and measured, he picked up the dog, his grip as light as possible. She couldn’t weigh more than five pounds. He decided to take her to the local vet. Dr. Vandercamp lived a few streets away from his dad.
“What’s your name, little girl?” She wore no collar. “I bet it’s something menacing like Killer or She-beast. You Chihuahuas are known for your tempers, right? Well, I’m going to call you Princess.” Nicknames mattered. Just ask Dorothea. Nicknames built you up or tore you down.
Jude was once called Priest. While some soldiers had girlfriends in every port, he’d remained faithful to his wife. Happily so.
Brock was sometimes likened to a bulldozer. The Brocdozer. He’d tended to mow down anything in his way.
Daniel was known as Mr. Clean. When a situation got dirty, he rushed in and cleaned up the mess.
Irony at its finest. He couldn’t clean up the mess he’d made of his life.
When Daniel reached his dad’s neighborhood, he quickened his step. The housing subdivision had three streets and a grand total of twelve homes, each centered on a one-acre plot. Some of the homes resembled barns, while others were more traditional two-story colonials.
Dr. Vandercamp lived in one of the barns. The porch light was off. To discourage visitors? Oh, well. Daniel knocked on the door. Hard.
Several minutes passed before the lights flipped on and the old man—
Nope, not the old man, but his son, Brett, who was Daniel’s age. Right. He remembered Virgil telling him that Brett had become a vet, just like his dad, and that he’d taken over the old man’s practice.
Brett wore a pink T-shirt that read “Save the Boobies,” a pair of boxers and a scowl. “What do you want, Porter?”
Far from intimidated, Daniel said, “I found this little beauty a few miles back. She’s injured. Do you have the tools to care for her here, or do you need to go to your office?” Subtext: Princess was getting treatment tonight.
Brett’s gruff exterior was suddenly replaced by caring concern. “Poor darling. Don’t you worry. I’ve got what I need here.”
Good. “I’ll pay for everything.”
An-n-nd goodbye concern. “Considering you made a house call in the middle of the night, you’re lucky I’m not going to make you pay double.” The guy looked the little Chihuahua over with a critical eye. “She’s malnourished, and she’ll need to be hooked to an IV for the rest of the night. Maybe tomorrow, too.”
Daniel reluctantly handed her over, knowing she would be terrified of the new human as well as the new situation. And he was right. She peed on him.
“You’re going to be okay, aren’t you, sweet girl? Yes, you are. Oh, yes, you are.” Brett’s hazel gaze flipped up to Daniel. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
“You don’t have my number.”
“Do you really think getting it will be difficult?” The door shut in his face.
“Thank you,” Daniel called.
He jogged to his dad’s house. When he’d first arrived in town, the colonial had been a run-down mess. Before starting LPH, Daniel had redone the trim, replaced the roof and painted absolutely everything.
A quiet entry proved unnecessary. Jude and Brock sat in the living room, exactly where he’d left them. They spent a lot of time here, discussing work and watching Virgil whenever Daniel had to be gone for an extended period.
“Why do you reek of urine?” Jude looked him over and frowned. “Better question. Why do you have a streak of blood on your shirt?”
The guy noticed everything. “I found an injured dog and took her to the vet. Where’s my dad?”
“In bed. Told us to use our inside voices or he’d put buckshot in our asses.” Brock grinned a sinner’s grin. Completely unrepentant. “Does he not know he’s partially deaf and wouldn’t be able to hear us if we shouted?” Of course, he shouted the question.
No bellow of warning came from Virgil’s bedroom.
Daniel stalked to the kitchen, grabbed a beer and returned to the living room, falling into one of the chairs. What a day.
Beside him, Jude balanced a laptop on his thighs, his prosthetic limb propped against the coffee table. With his pale, shaggy hair, navy blue eyes and golden tan, he could have passed for a surfer—if there had been anything lighthearted about him. The right side of his face bore the same shrapnel scars Daniel possessed, though Jude’s were worse; one cut through his lip, giving him a permanent scowl.