Читать книгу Soldier's Rescue - Betina Krahn - Страница 10

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 black-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 exam 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.

Sometimes the magnitude of the career she had chosen seemed overwhelming. Whenever she confronted the heartbreaking ways human failings and animal vulnerability could collide, she found herself making the decision all over again to stand on the front line of decency and compassion. It was her job to treat and care for patients who could not speak for themselves, and whose trust of humans was unequivocal and often undeserved.

She was unaware of her grandmother standing behind her until Nance hooked Kate’s arm through hers and tugged. When she turned, Gran’s sun-weathered face was soft with understanding. Her gran had always seemed to know what was happening with her before she knew herself.

“Come on.” Gran led her back to the main office. “I know just the cure for that look.”

Minutes later, they were on the puppy-room floor, ensconced with eight rambunctious balls of fur, tossing toys, stroking fuzzy new coats and avoiding sharp little milk teeth. It was impossible to dwell on human irresponsibility in the face of such a contagious love of life. The pups threw themselves wholeheartedly into learning and exploring, seeking out Kate and her grandmother and Isabelle. They chewed and licked and tumbled. They investigated toys and the room’s boundaries, tracked through the water bowl and barked at the humans sitting in their play area. They attacked each other and teased their caretakers; it was enough to melt the most jaded heart.

Kate picked up one of them in her arms and cuddled him, inhaling his sweet puppy breath and laughing with delight at the way his little pink tongue licked her face.

“They’re almost eight weeks old.” Nance turned to Kate as if an idea had just occurred. “Hey, why don’t you take one of them home with you?”

Kate rubbed noses with one of the pups, feeling her gut tighten. “Don’t have time, Gran. My life is hectic enough with the practice and the new house—I haven’t even finished unpacking.”

“You’ve been unpacking for six danged months,” Nance said.

“Exactly. I’m too busy. And, of course, there’s the shelter.” She shot a narrow look at Nance. “The one my grandmother keeps roping me into giving away my hard-won professional expertise to.”

“Excuses, excuses.” Nance gave a huff. “You can’t postpone life forever, Kate. Just because he turned out to be a jackass—”

“Gran.” Kate raised a hand to prevent a familiar argument.

“I’m just saying. You need to find someone to share your life with.”

“I have more than a someone, I have a partner and a grandmother and a bunch of friends and this shelter and another whole farm full of rescues and strays.”

“That’s my farm. My animals,” Nance said.

“Yeah? How many times have I heard you say that no one ever owns an animal? That they are all God’s creatures and they’re just given into our care for whatever time they’re here on earth?”

“Fine. They’re in my care. It’s time you got your own to care for.”

“Once again—” Kate grinned, knowing she had won “—not enough hours in the day.” She nuzzled another puppy nose. “Right, Pee Wee?”

Moments later the sound of the shelter door creaking open drifted into the puppy room, followed by heavy footsteps. She looked over to find a large pair of boots—big and well polished—settling in the doorway. She followed khaki-clad legs up to a broad pair of shoulders bearing a badge, and on up to a serious pair of aviator shades. The officer stood with his hands propped on a heavy service belt, looking at them.

“Got an injured dog in the cruiser,” came a deep, authoritative voice. “Hit by a car and lost a lot of blood. I don’t want to move her.”

“I’ll take a look.” Kate was on her feet in a flash and hurrying for the makeshift surgery. Behind her she could hear Isabelle say that they didn’t usually take in injured animals, but he was in luck—one of their volunteer vets was on premises.

A minute later, she emerged with her stethoscope draped around her neck, snapping on a pair of gloves. The officer, Nance, and Isabelle were already out the door, so she dashed after them. A black-and-cream highway patrol cruiser sat in the gravel drive, its engine running and light bar flashing, sweeping the area with red and blue.

The big officer opened the rear passenger-side door and hesitated a moment before waving Kate toward a blanket-wrapped form lying on the back seat. Before she could completely duck through the door, a growl set her back outside. A shepherd rose out of the shadows onto the seat beside the injured dog, ears up, every muscle taut with warning.

“Come on, you stubborn—She’s going to look at your friend.” The officer was around the car in a flash and opening the far door, dragging the shepherd back to clear the way for her. “He was with her when I found her,” he explained as Kate took a deep breath, slid into the foot well and got busy with her stethoscope and penlight.

“Pupils reactive. Heart is slow but steady—good so far.” She carefully felt the golden’s prominent ribs and rear quarters and ran her hands gently over the injured leg. The scrape of bone against bone said it all. “She’s got at least one fracture. I need X-rays to see how bad it is, and she needs fluids right away. I may have to do some surgery.” She glanced over her shoulder at the shelter and frowned.

“I don’t have all of the equipment I need here.” She looked at the officer, who was half in, half out of the cruiser, restraining the unhappy shepherd. He seemed to have the big, rangy dog in hand, and the fleeting thought occurred to her that having things under control was probably his norm. At that moment, she envied him. “She’ll have to go to my office,” she said, popping off the gloves. “I hate to ask, but can you drive her over there? She shouldn’t be moved more than necessary.”

“Just tell me how to get there,” he said, his voice full of certainty.

Kate inhaled sharply as if she’d been holding her breath.

“Why don’t you ride with the dog?” Gran said as Kate emerged from the back seat. “I’ll bring your Jeep over later, and Isabelle can pick me up.”

It sounded reasonable. She nodded and handed her keys to Gran. As she slid back into the rear seat, she was aware of the officer releasing the shepherd into the front seat with a warning and then closing the rear door. The shepherd climbed over the hardware in the front—computer, radio, scanner, racked gun—not the least bit intimidated. He turned and put paws on the seat back to watch what was happening behind him. The officer slid behind the steering wheel and managed to click his seat belt and crank the wheel with the palm of his hand at the same time.

“You’ll want to hang on,” he called over his shoulder.

She scrambled for room beside the injured dog and found a seat belt just as they took off, gravel flying. She jerked against the restraint as the cruiser’s tires grabbed the asphalt of the county road.

Lights and sirens for an injured dog; this was a first for her. She glanced up at the officer in the front seat and caught a few more details: strong jaw with a hint of a scar beneath a Florida tan. Dark hair cut high and tight—military, for sure. Judging by his erect bearing and contained physicality, he could handle himself—probably had handled himself.

She gave directions, then stroked her patient and murmured quiet reassurances. When she looked up, wary eyes in a brooding shepherd face were watching her. Distrust. She’d seen that look a thousand times in animals and sensed that she’d need the officer’s help at the end of this mad dash. Turning back to her patient, she carried in her mind’s eye the image of the shepherd anxiously nosing her patient’s head.

“Thanks for doing this, Officer...”

“Trooper. Stanton. Nick Stanton.”

“Kate Everly. DVM.”

“I gathered.” He seemed to glance at her in the rearview mirror; it was hard to tell where he was looking behind those shades. “Lucky you were there.”

“My grandmother is on the shelter’s board. She ropes me into helping regularly.”

He nodded and said nothing more.

Clearly a man of few words.