Chapter 2

Kurt passed his first twenty-four hours in Fort Leonard Wood without placing the call he most needed to make. Finally, knowing he’d put off the inevitable reunion long enough, he borrowed Thomas’s cell phone and arranged to meet his grandfather.

It wasn’t so much that he dreaded reconnecting with the stalwart man who’d raised him. The problem was that seeing him would make it impossible to deny that his grandmother—Nana—was gone. Forever. His grandfather had been an upstanding, stern, and dedicated parent figure. Nana, on the other hand, had been comfort, love, and understanding.

Half an hour later, Kurt met his grandfather outside Tilly’s, the quiet pub that escaped the craziness frequenting some of the more popular bars and taverns around Fort Leonard Wood. His grandfather was stepping out of his ten-year-old emerald-green F-150 when Kurt pulled up.

William Crawford nodded his way, squinting in the bright afternoon sun. He hardly looked a year older than he had when Kurt enlisted, certainly not eight years older. They exchanged handshakes rather than hugs and headed inside, taking seats at the bar.

Kurt found himself blinking at the familiarity of the place as they settled into awkward conversation highlighted by more silence than words. He shifted on his stool and swigged from his longneck beer. It felt like a lifetime since he’d been at Tilly’s. Nothing here had changed, not even the glowing Miller Lite sign whose M flickered sporadically or the chipped pool table at the back of the bar. Kurt felt eons older than the twenty-year-old he’d been when he enlisted. But here time had stood still.

Beside him, his grandfather lifted his glass of bourbon to give it a swirl. Kurt couldn’t remember a night the man went without one. When he was little, he’d watched him pop open a Coke along with the Maker’s Mark, watched the careful way he mixed and stirred. For the last fifteen or so years, William Crawford had drunk it straight.

Kurt had never seen his grandfather drunk. One glass, sipped slowly, deliberately. Without variation.

He knew from the set of his jaw that his grandfather was still pissed. Kurt didn’t blame him. His grandmother had given Kurt everything, and he hadn’t made it to her funeral. Kurt tossed around the idea of telling his grandfather why, but he’d probably have more luck composing a sentence in broken French than he would telling his grandfather something with such heavy underlying emotion. The truth was, Kurt didn’t have a good reason, other than that he hadn’t been ready to accept her death. You slip. You fall. You hit your head. That wasn’t reason enough for a life to end. Especially not hers.

And besides, his grandfather wasn’t the type to let anyone talk him out of his anger until he was good and ready to let it go. Kurt would have to wait him out.

“You eating okay? Without her?” he asked instead.

“Well enough.” William sipped his bourbon, then added, “Been eating out mostly and having eggs when I don’t. Not in a hurry to get my cholesterol checked.”

If his grandfather had been eating poorly, it didn’t show. For someone who’d recently turned seventy, William could still claim the fitness of a much younger man. He was just shy of six feet and lean. He wore his salt-and-pepper hair as short as when he’d been on active duty, and perhaps out of pure stubbornness, he’d made it all his years without as much as a pair of reading glasses.

“I miss her tortillas,” Kurt said, thinking how different a pair they’d been. His grandfather met his nana when he was on leave and partying down in Mexico. She was from a proud, wealthy family who traced their ancestors back to early eighteenth-century Spain and had turned silver mining in Guanajuato into a fortune that had lasted for generations. Her decision to elope with an American army brat with no connections had led to her being ostracized by her family, though in all the years Kurt knew her, he’d never heard her complain about it. “When she made them fresh. The way they melted in your mouth. I’d have dreams about them back in Afghanistan.”

This brought a smile to William’s face. “Bet that was a sorry disappointment when you woke up to base slop.”

“It was.”

“Military food didn’t stunt your journey into manhood, at least. You’ve muscled up a fair bit from the scrawny kid who left.”

Kurt noted the compliment, something his grandfather rarely handed out.

After a few minutes of quiet, William pointed to the flat-screen TV in the corner. “You been following this story? It’s gotten more airtime than that attack in Baghdad. Old Rob’s getting his fifteen minutes, that’s for sure.”

Kurt glanced at the screen. He blinked in surprise at the familiar face being interviewed. He’d first met Rob Bornello when he was six or seven. Back then, Rob worked on the base. He was the best K-9 trainer around, and Kurt made it his business to learn as much from him as he could. Rob left years ago to train dogs in the private sector, though Kurt continued to shadow him every so often until he enlisted.

Kurt wished the TV wasn’t muted. “No, what happened?”

“A fighting ring was exposed up in St. Louis. A big one. At least a dozen different dog men were involved. Rob came out of the woods to organize the rescue.”

“Shame about the dogs,” Kurt said, suspecting the sad story would set his restless mind afire. “That Rob. I wondered what had happened to him the last several years.”

“He shows up at the post once or twice a year, and from what I know, he never gave any of it up. Heard he was calling around yesterday looking for dog handlers who might be able to help him out. Asked about you specifically. I got a call from Ham.”

Kurt felt a rush of pride. It’d been eight years since he’d seen the man who’d been his mentor. “I take it as a compliment that he thought of me, but that’s a mess I’m not interested in.”

William raised a meticulously trimmed eyebrow. “That’s a relief. Most of us have to grow up sometime. Not everyone can make an honest living playing with dogs.”

Kurt’s teeth ground together. It wasn’t an argument worth having. He’d decided of his own volition that he was done working with dogs. His grandfather’s long-held prejudices over which careers accounted for an honest living wouldn’t change and shouldn’t bother him.

But he could feel the retort, cynical and accusing, building in the pit of his stomach. Right before it reached his throat, soft, thin fingers clamped over his eyes, and a body, a distinctly feminine one, pressed against his back and hips.

“Kurtis Crawford, if I hadn’t missed you so much, I’d be reading you the riot act for waiting so long to come home.”

The muscles from the base of his skull to the back of his calves went rigid. Instinct at being caught off guard—honed over eight years of service—and not having heard her over the Johnny Cash pouring out the speakers, urged him to react, to throw her off him. But a secondary reaction pulsed a split second behind and kept his hands locked around his beer. He was stateside and in a friendly bar. And besides, he’d have recognized her if she’d caught him off guard the same way in the middle of a desert camp. The softness of her fingers pressing unwanted against his eyelids. The smell of her freshly applied Cashmere perfume. The touch of a southern drawl she’d most likely perfected to drive men crazy.

“It’s just Kurt,” he said, twisting to slip from her grasp. “Says so on my birth certificate.” He shot a glance his grandfather’s way. As always around her, William’s look was a touch disapproving, but he didn’t seem surprised that she’d shown up either.

So his grandfather had told her of their plans to meet here. What was wrong with facing only one of them at a time?

“And you really shouldn’t sneak up behind someone who’s fresh off a tour,” Kurt added. “Though we all know you know that.”

He swiveled to face her but kept seated on his stool. Maybe it was in the water. Maybe it was genetic. Maybe it was dumping every spare dollar she earned on beauty products. But she wasn’t aging. She wore her long, raven-black hair full and free. The blue eyes she’d gotten from her father sparkled in a way that was distinctly hers. It was a cool September night, but she was still wearing cutoff jean shorts and a flowing shirt shoestringed together in the center, plunging low, highlighting her full chest.

“Look at you,” she raved. “God, you’re handsome.” He was enveloped in a bear hug before he could stop her. “Like a damn bottle of Grey Goose to sit on a shelf and look at but not drink.”

Kurt felt the heat rising up his neck, burning his jawline. He allowed his hands to close loosely over her shoulder blades. It hit him how petite she was. “Hey,” he said, tiring of the confining hug well before she was ready to let go, “seriously.”

She finally took a step back. “How about you scoot over, Kurtis, so I can have a seat smack-dab between the two most important men in my universe.”

William cleared his throat or outright scoffed. Kurt couldn’t tell over the music. His grandfather’s face, as usual, was poker perfect.

Kurt slid over without complaint, having no desire to be locked in between the two of them. Then he waved at the bartender, knowing he’d need another beer to get through the next hour. Hell, who was he kidding? He’d need another two or three. A fresh wave of fatigue swept over him, reminding him why it’d been easier to extend his tour than to finally come home.

But he’d been away long enough. The truth was, he’d shut them out long enough. Nana had once phrased it perfectly. Though he could no longer remember her exact words, he remembered the gist. Living, ostracized, dead, or embraced, your family was still your family.

“Mom,” he said, “what is it you’re drinking nowadays?”

* * *

Kurt hoped the two-and-a-half-hour drive back to St. Louis the next morning would be the distraction he needed. He awoke an hour before dawn from chaotic dreams that were the detritus of his years of service. He’d planned to spend the last part of the day catching up with some old buddies still stationed at the post, but he was too antsy to wait around until they were off duty.

And after surviving the uneasy family reunion last night, the idea of hanging around Fort Leonard Wood an entire day with no solid plans wasn’t enticing. His mother had mentioned she had the day off, but try as he might, Kurt could only tolerate her in small doses.

His thoughts circled as he headed east on Interstate 44. Reconnecting with Rob Bornello was long overdue. Kurt had never gotten around to seeing Rob when he was home on leave, and he genuinely missed his mentor. He’d like to believe that driving nearly 150 miles back to St. Louis less than twenty-four hours after landing had nothing to do with the images of the dogs that had flashed across the TV screen last night.

But Kurt was getting better about not lying to himself. He wouldn’t rest easy until he got inside that warehouse and saw the dogs for himself. He just needed reassurance they were being rehoused into centers with caring, competent staff. Whatever he saw today, Kurt was determined not to get involved. He’d make a donation, but he was staying out of this mess. He’d lost too many dogs—and too many buddies—over the last several years. It was a commitment he’d made after losing Zara in Afghanistan a few months back.

He needed a break. Needed to immerse himself in something that didn’t matter. Something physically demanding that would have him crawling into bed after a demanding day, something to exhaust his body and quiet his mind. And he intended to do it where it wasn’t hot.

He knew Rob was going to try to put him to work, but in the long run, Rob would understand. Rob had introduced him to the K-9 world. Kurt had started shadowing him at the post as soon as his grandparents trusted him to bike away for the afternoon. Rob had kept in contact after he left the post, taking Kurt to exhibitions with him a few times a year.

By the time he pulled into a gas station a mile from the warehouse address his grandfather had shoved at him as he was leaving the bar last night, Kurt was surprised to find it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. He’d grab a cup of coffee and whatever prepackaged breakfast sandwich looked the best under the heat lamps and be on his way.

* * *

If Kelsey had any doubt diving into a dogfighting rescue would be controversial, it vanished as she and Fidel, her coworker, pulled in front of the warehouses in north St. Louis County where the confiscated animals were being held. It was only eight in the morning, and the picketers were already here, polka-dotting opposite sides of the street. Peacefully it seemed, so far anyway.

Kelsey scanned the handwritten posters as she stepped from her car. The clearly animal-rights side wanted harsh punishments for the dog men and demanded an end to vicious dogfighting. A few people held posters with enlarged pictures of themselves snuggling with well-known fighting breeds, pit bulls mostly. Some had even brought their dogs along. Kelsey counted at least four leashed pit bulls, two Rottweilers, and a few breeds she couldn’t identify milling among the group of supporters.

Her cheeks flamed hot as she took in the posters on the opposite side of the street. It wasn’t only the glare of the morning sun that caused their posters to burn her retinas. A quick skim made it clear these protesters didn’t want the animals being rehabbed. Once a killer, always a killer. Protect our neighborhoods, stop killing sprees before they happen. Humanely euthanize now and save human lives. One poster asserted that animals existed to serve humans, and fighting dogs didn’t serve anyone.

She chewed hard on her tongue to keep from stalking over with a mouthful of statistics none of them would likely care to hear. Fighting with fired-up protesters wouldn’t change their minds and would only give her a headache.

Fidel, who’d been finishing up a phone call with his wife, stepped out from the passenger seat and surveyed the scene. He made a guttural sound, and Kelsey wondered if she might have to guide him away from the protesters. Fidel grew up in the slums of Mexico City and credited a unique childhood relationship with a stray basenji as the reason he kept away from the city’s violent gangs.

“We should head inside,” she suggested. “I told Mr. Bornello we’d be here at eight. I’ll text Megan that we’re going in. She can join us when she gets here.”

“Sí, let’s do.”

Her heart sank as she eyed the two police officers guarding the warehouse entrance. The few times she’d been with Fidel around the police, he’d fallen quiet and turned pale, the veins in his temples bulging. The only thing Fidel had ever shared about his journey to America was that it had been complicated. When he was hired four years ago, he presented all the necessary paperwork. Neither Megan nor Wesley, the now-retired shelter founder, were ones to question it.

When she’d asked Fidel to come along this morning, she hadn’t thought of the extra stress it might cause him. She’d only thought of how she and Megan could use his advice in picking out the animals. Of the shelter’s five full-time employees, Fidel knew the most about dogs. Sometimes she’d swear he spoke dog. He’d be perfect for leading the rehab project, if it wasn’t for the fact that his wife was pregnant with their fourth child and on bed rest. As a result, his schedule had become unpredictable the last month and would continue that way for a while.

Kelsey held her breath as they passed the protesters. She had an odd sense of a crowd gathering for a parade, only no one seemed to be having any fun. Fortunately, she and Fidel made it down the sidewalk without more than a few halfhearted calls directed at them.

The two policemen squared off in front of the double doors as they neared. “No visitors,” the shorter one said. “Registered guests and rescue workers only.” His tone was blunt but not rude. The middle button of his light-blue uniform shirt had come undone, exposing an unsightly bit of flesh. Kelsey figured it best not to point that out.

“We’re expected,” she said as Fidel gritted his teeth. “I am anyway, and I asked Fidel to come with me. Our supervisor is meeting us here. We work at the High Grove Animal Shelter. We’ve volunteered to take some of the dogs once they’re cleared to leave. My name is Kelsey Sutton.”

The taller one lifted a clipboard from a chair. He scanned it, then glanced her way. “I’ll need some ID.”

As Kelsey fished through her purse, a loud, red classic Mustang pulled into the lot and parked. She wondered if it was another protester, and if so, why the driver hadn’t parked off to the side with the others. The driver, a guy, popped out and headed purposefully down the sidewalk toward her. He was around her age and incredibly fit, precision-toned almost.

It had to be instinctive, the way her insides melted, because anyone that fit almost certainly couldn’t be her type. His level of fitness spoke of high-maintenance diets and protein powder and lots of time in front of the mirror. She’d seen too much growing up with two older, self-absorbed weight-lifting brothers to believe otherwise.

Sliding her license from her wallet, she handed it to the taller cop with the clipboard.

He took his time studying it, looked pointedly at her, and frowned. “I’d put you at five nine or ten, not five eight.”

Kelsey felt the heat flame up her neck as the driver of the Mustang stopped right behind them. Dear God, don’t let him mention my weight. “Five nine,” she managed, “when I’m not in these running shoes.”

“You’ll want to update that next time you’re renewing your license.”

She nodded but stayed as quiet as Fidel. They were offering to rehab confiscated dogs. Why did she feel like she was a crime suspect all of a sudden?

The tall one pulled out a radio to make contact with someone inside the warehouse. “I have a Kelsey Sutton and acquaintance from the High Grove Animal Shelter in Webster here to see Rob. She’s on the list for an eight o’clock arrival.” After a bit more of an exchange, the officer nodded at her. “Just a minute. He’s on his way.”

The officers shifted their attention to the man standing behind her. “Are you expected, sir?” the short one asked.

Sir?

Unable to resist, Kelsey stole a glance over her shoulder. To her dismay, he met her gaze full on. He was in jeans and a dark-gray T-shirt, but something about his demeanor radiated military or police. He had olive skin, short brown hair, and chestnut-brown eyes. And he was so fit.

He flicked his gaze to the officers, most likely forgetting her existence on the spot. He slipped an ID from his wallet. “Kurt Crawford. Military dog handler, marines most recently. Army before that. I’m here to see Rob as well.”

“Of course,” the tall one said, not even giving the clipboard a glance. “He’ll be right out.”