Chapter 4

“If you don’t mind me saying, you’re jumpier than a jackrabbit, son,” Rob said, swiping a half piece of toast over the mess of yolk on his plate. Seeing Kurt nearly leap from his seat at the sound of a dish breaking in the kitchen hadn’t escaped Rob’s notice. “It’s a shame they don’t do more for you boys on coming home. It’s like when you’ve been down in the deep of the ocean too long. Come up without acclimating, and you burst from inside.”

Kurt swallowed his last bite of crunchy bacon. Son. It was likely little more than slang, but nevertheless it scraped his ears every time Rob said it. How often had he fallen asleep as a kid wishing Rob were his father? Wished for it in a different way than just wanting a father, any father. But as Nana said, you make lemonade from the lemons you have. His grandfather was the best he’d get in that department. Half of his genes would remain a mystery. That was that.

“You think I have the soldiering bends?” Kurt laughed, half surprised something with such a heavy undertone had tickled his funny bone. “And you’re trying to talk me into working with a bunch of dogs on the verge of exploding exactly as you said.”

The server passed by, refilling their coffee and dropping off the check. Rob dragged a napkin over the salt-and-pepper stubble covering his dimpled chin. “I think,” he said after the server left, “that getting on a lumber or road crew out West isn’t going to settle what’s churning under your surface. And the sooner you deal with it, the better you’ll be. Take some time. Think it over. I don’t have to tell you how nice it would be to have you here in St. Louis for a while.”

When Kurt stayed quiet, Rob added, “If donations keep pouring in like this, I’ll double the pay I’ve offered you.”

Kurt swirled the last of the coffee in his cup. He kept seeing the blond walking over on shaky legs to press that pink sticky onto the pit’s crate. Kept letting his thoughts sway to how seeing her do it stirred awake something burning hot in his core. “The thing is, I don’t know—” His mouth stayed open, but no more words came. Don’t know what? The truth was he had no idea. “I don’t know.”

If it was anyone else, he’d give an adamant no. But it was Rob. “I’ll think about it,” Kurt added, even though he knew the answer. He wasn’t going to get involved.

However, things wouldn’t sit easy with him until he said his piece. “That girl. I don’t care how many years’ experience she’s had with positive training, most of those dogs are going to need a more assertive hand than she’ll be able to give them. She didn’t even have the sense not to drag a giant alpha who probably outweighs her into that ragtag mix she’s going to take off your hands. You have to know that without me telling you.”

“I do. And that’s why I won’t deliver them to her until I’ve got a trained handler ready to take the lead on rehabbing. I know he’s not your favorite, but Tommy Sintras is giving it some serious thought. He’s working over in Kansas City. He called me when he saw the story. If I’d been able to offer him more, he’d have dropped everything. From what he said, he’s up to his elbows in pampered, inbred pooches.”

A rumble of discontent rolled through Kurt’s chest. Tommy Sintras had been in training down in Texas with him. Tommy hadn’t passed the handler test on the first run. He’d been too quick to let frustration get the best of him. Military service dogs needed calm, assertive leadership, not an overly dominant, excitable handler. “Tommy, huh? Let’s hope he’s cooled off the last few years.”

“Guys I trust are backing him. Not that I’m saying he’d be as chivalrous or stay as calm as you were about having a mess splashed all over his boots.” Rob chuckled as he pulled out his wallet. “Good thing for that hose, huh?”

Tommy was a player too. There was no reason that should be bothering Kurt, but it was. Besides, from the little interaction they’d had, he suspected Kelsey would be better at putting Tommy in his place than those dogs. But Tommy would keep coming back for another shot. That body and those eyes were worth the effort. Kurt tried shoving the image of her into the same deep pit where he shoved everything he didn’t want to think about, though it didn’t work. He hadn’t been that close to a woman in a while. Unless he counted the mother invasion of last night.

The surface of his hand still tingled from the smoothness of the blond’s arm as he’d kept her from toppling over at the sight of the pathetic pit bull. The citrusy scent of her shampoo circled his nostrils. The soothing tone she’d used with the dogs reverberated in his head.

“You know what I haven’t gotten an update on?” Kurt asked, needing to change the subject. “Soccer.”

One of Rob’s eyebrows shot into his forehead. Rob was fifty-two and still playing on a year-round team. He pretty much lived for two things. Dogs and soccer.

Soccer proved to be the change of topic Kurt needed. It monopolized the conversation until they paid and headed outside. They parted ways with him promising to give Rob a call and not to stay a stranger. He was halfway back to Fort Leonard Wood when he realized he hadn’t been able to put the morning’s events out of his mind for a second. Why couldn’t his mind grasp that right now, his best chance of feeling good was to take a stab at something else entirely?

* * *

There were butterflies in Kelsey’s stomach the next morning. Half from excitement, half from nerves. Change was hardly something she embraced, but it wasn’t something she hid from either.

She sat at her desk at the shelter, looking it over with a rare scrutiny as she waited for Patrick to finish getting ready to head over with her to the Sabrina Raven estate. She’d spent most of her waking hours here the last seven years. Half the letters on her keyboard were so worn they were indiscernible. The miniature dog and cat glass figurines lining her monitor riser had collected enough dust to dull their colors. There was a pile of nonessential paperwork off to the right she never seemed to get to. The faded glass fishing float she’d found as a kid on vacation on the Oregon coast rested by her pen jar.

Kelsey picked up the glass orb, wondering how many years it had been since she paid any real attention to it. These blue-green antique floats were abundant in the coastline shops but rare to find washed up on the beach. Her dad had hugged her tight after she found it all crusted with sand while walking the beach. He insisted it proved she was remarkably lucky.

She wondered if he still thought so, considering she’d only been taking classes part time since dropping out of Truman State University halfway through her sophomore year. Or considering she hadn’t been on a date in forever, and her career had stagnated four years ago after she was promoted to lead adoption coordinator. In a full-time staff of five.

Ugh, you’re psyching yourself out again, Kels. Glancing at the dusty framed photo of her family on the far side of her monitor didn’t help ease her nerves. It had been taken six years ago at her brother Chaz’s wedding. Chaz, Brian, and her dad were in suits that complemented their well-muscled physiques and dark-brown hair. Kelsey had been a bridesmaid and was in a fantastic lavender dress. Wearing it with ample makeup and an updo, she looked more like a younger, taller version of her mother than she typically did. Her mom, also a natural blond, had a gift for accessorizing that Kelsey probably couldn’t acquire even if she had a degree in fashion.

Even though they had their differences, she loved her family and they loved her. And over the last couple years, they seemed to have accepted that her job at the shelter wasn’t a phase, and that she and corporate America would never be a thing. Of her family of five, she was the only one who’d been bitten by the animal bug. As far as Kelsey was concerned, strong benefit plans and retirement accounts paled in comparison to warm, brown eyes and four-legged affection.

But working at a shelter was a lot different from leading a fighting-dog rehab effort at a secluded old mansion. Her dad and brothers were going to think she was nuts, and her mom was going to worry. And maybe she’d be right to do so.

This was probably why Kelsey had put off telling them last night when she’d gone to her parents’ for dinner. Chaz was out of town with his wife, and Kelsey’s parents were keeping their four- and five-year-old granddaughters for the week. Kelsey was crazy about her nieces, so it had been all too easy to keep the attention focused on them and not dive into the news yet. But maybe she should’ve gotten it over with.

Kelsey gave her shoulders a brisk shake. This thing with the fighting dogs. She could do it. She could run the rehab operation. In the Sabrina Raven estate. She’d even sleep there if she had to. More than enough furniture was still there, waiting for someone to use it.

Okay, so maybe she wouldn’t take it that far.

But she was bound and determined to rock this rehab. She could feel the little breath of excitement that had been building in her stomach. Before yesterday, she hadn’t realized how much she needed to do something gutsy.

And she wasn’t going to go at this alone. Her parents at least could be comforted by that. Rob had called late last night to tell her everything was in order. He had secured a trainer to work with her, some ex-military dog handler named Tommy Sintras. She’d Googled him and found a half-dozen pictures as well as a few online newspaper articles in which he’d been interviewed. He was around her age and okay-enough looking, but there was something about his eyes that seemed beady and set up her guard.

She should be thankful. It could be worse. She could be working alone in that big house with the other ex-military dog trainer, Kurt. Curt Kurt. The weighty feeling in her chest last night on learning she wouldn’t be working with him wasn’t disappointment. She didn’t know what it was, but it definitely wasn’t disappointment.

He’d been chivalrous, yes. And he was good-looking enough that her pulse quickened when she looked at him. And maybe her mouth salivated a bit. Which was humiliating because judging by the sharp way he’d looked at her, there might as well have been a fluorescent light above his head declaring she wasn’t his type.

And then there’d been the whole getting-sick-on-his-boots thing.

All in all, she should definitely be thankful to be working with someone else.

She was about to go look for Patrick when he stepped in from the back kennels wearing a clompy pair of rubber boots that reached his knees. Coupled with the thick rubber gloves half crammed into his jeans pocket, the boots make him look ready to disinfect a triage center rather than help tidy up the Raven mansion.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Yes, but I double-checked the van. We’ve only packed four baby gates, six leashes, and twelve collars. You said thirty-seven dogs are being delivered tomorrow. The only thing we seem to have enough of are the boxes of towels, blankets, water bowls, and stuffed toys.”

Kelsey pursed her lips. Thirty-seven suddenly sounded like an enormous number. Yesterday at the warehouse, she’d felt like she wasn’t committing to enough. “I know, but even with volunteers helping, it’ll be awhile before the dogs will be together in any number. They’ll eat in secluded rooms at different times. We can disinfect dishes between meals. And not all thirty-seven are coming tomorrow. Several of them still need to be spayed or neutered and may still be in recovery. Especially the ones having surgery today.”

Patrick nodded and asked if two bottles of bleach would be enough to disinfect the estate.

“With two bottles of bleach, we could disinfect the whole street,” Kelsey said, forgetting he would probably start calculating the possibility. “But keep them. That empty, old house has to be crawling with mice and who knows what else.”

She was grabbing her purse when she noticed a Channel 3 news van pulling into the lot. Since they hadn’t made any sort of announcement, it seemed unlikely the visit was related to the rescue operation. She glanced at the calendar on her desk. Channel 3 featured one of their dogs or cats every month, but the shelter was another week out from needing to send this month’s photo and video. The thought reminded her that she’d need to pick someone to take over that project while she was at the Raven estate.

“What do you think this is about?” Kelsey asked, collecting herself before heading to the door. “We’re keeping quiet about the dogs so we can stay out of that media storm.”

Patrick followed her gaze. “The protesters,” he said after a moment of thought. “You said you saw them in front of the building yesterday. It would be easy to trace your plates. Easy to connect you to the shelter.”

Kelsey’s butterflies changed to bats. “Megan has a doctor appointment this morning, doesn’t she? Of all mornings.”

“You can always decline comment.”

“If I decline comment, it’ll come across looking like we’re guilty of something. Besides, it’s Channel 3. They love us.”

Patrick pursed his lips. “Maybe. But the news is a business. They’ll air what generates the most viewership.”

Kelsey pulled out her phone and shot off a text to Megan. The cameraman had the back of the van open and was pulling out a camera. Kelsey stared at her phone screen, willing Megan to reply. But she was probably on a table looking at an image of her baby right now.

And even though Kelsey didn’t want to go it alone, Patrick’s blunt honesty had the potential to make things messy. She finger combed through her mess of thick, wavy hair, then smoothed the front of her shirt. “Hey, why don’t you stay inside, and I’ll see what they want.”

Patrick shrugged and said he’d look through the supply closet for anything else they might need at the mansion.

“Thanks,” Kelsey said, rolling her shoulders. This was one of the rare occasions when she wished she carried some makeup in her purse. “How do I look?”

Patrick narrowed his eyes in inspection. “Pale,” he said, “and your cheeks are a bit blotchy. And you have a few beads of sweat on your forehead.”

Of course. Of freaking course. If you aren’t looking for the truth, her dad would say. She dragged her forearm across her forehead and swallowed hard. “Thanks, Patrick. Wish me luck. I shouldn’t be long.”

* * *

The quiet of the internet café outside Fort Leonard Wood was a welcome reprieve from the bustling USO cyber café Kurt tried earlier. Only a handful of diligently working soldiers dotted this café, a stark contrast from the noise and commotion of earlier. Here, perusing laborers-wanted postings online was almost relaxing. He emailed responses to about seven listings—three in Idaho, two in Wyoming, and two in Montana—before taking a break to order a large black coffee and a chocolate long john from the flirtatious girl working the counter. He spent a few minutes answering her questions and watching her flip her hair as he inhaled the doughnut.

He was rusty, but he suspected if he asked for her number, she’d give it to him. And he’d lost count of how many times he’d been distracted by her plunging neckline since walking in. He hadn’t been on a date in nearly three years, and starting with something potentially easy and noncommittal was appealing. He was tossing around how best to ask when she twirled her hair around one finger in a way that reminded him of something his mother might do.

His mom had nearly twenty years on this girl, but he suspected she still spent enough of her time doing the same thing—hanging out on the outskirts of the post, hooking up with soldiers who had no thoughts of commitment. The connection sucked the question from his tongue, so he headed back to his computer at the first break in the conversation.

When Kurt sat down, rather than starting a new search in Washington State as planned, he entered illegal dogfighting ring, St. Louis almost unconsciously. He blinked in surprise at the image linking to a new Channel 3 story that had aired earlier in the morning. It was a still shot of the blond. Kelsey something or other.

His index finger hovered over the mouse, twitching. She was standing outside what must be the shelter where she worked, a nondescript redbrick building brightened by pots of colorful flowers and a bright-purple-and-green sign above a set of wide glass doors. Her delicate brows were drawn into a knot, and she was biting her lip. The caption next to the story image read Family-Centered Shelter Takes on Animals Trained to Kill.

The voice in his head—the one he credited with keeping him alive after more close calls than cats had lives—sternly announced he needed to get back to the job search.

His fingers didn’t listen. He clicked on the story, maximizing it to full screen. His heart sank as he realized it had run first as a live story. What was she thinking, agreeing to a live story? That was something Rob would only do with great caution, and only after confirming the questions before filming began.

The piece started with a perfectly composed reporter updating viewers on the horrific dogfighting rescue story while images of the confiscation flashed across the screen. Then the voice-over images ended and the reporter reappeared. She was speaking in a this-story-is-more-important-than-anything-you’ve-heard voice that grated on Kurt’s nerves. Kelsey stood beside her, looking fairly composed.

The first questions were benign, with the reporter asking how long the shelter had been in operation—eighteen years—and stating that it had long been a favorite organization in the Webster Groves community.

Then, after relaying that the shelter had made the controversial decision to take on a large number of the confiscated dogs, the reporter asked Kelsey point-blank her thoughts about embarking on what could be a life-threatening mission.

Kelsey seemed to freeze as the question sank in. The reporter had to nod her on. Finally, Kelsey gave a light shake of her head. “I don’t think anything about this rehab is life-threatening.”

That was it. She offered nothing else.

The reporter seemed to realize that she’d need to be the conversation starter. “But are you aware there are twenty to thirty deaths from dog attacks every year, most of which are committed by notorious fighting breeds like the ones you’re taking on?”

Kelsey pressed her lips together and looked at the camera before angling her body awkwardly toward the reporter. “I’m aware and it’s certainly tragic, but there are often extenuating circumstances the media doesn’t disclose.” She sucked in her cheek while shooting a glance at the camera. “And it’s important to state that the shelter is acting responsibly. The dogs we’re taking will be kept in a secluded location. Plus, their training is being overseen by a professional. He’s on his way from Kansas City.” She stopped and raked a hand through her hair.

So, they were bringing in Tommy Sintras after all. Kurt’s shoulders and neck tensed.

The reporter gave Kelsey a look of what seemed like mistrust. “Critics are calling for immediate humane euthanizing and are filing a lawsuit to that effect. Does your shelter have a formal response?”

“No, nothing formal.” Her internal reaction to the reporter’s question was obvious to Kurt. Her shoulders dropped, and she stepped half a foot closer. She no longer looked like she was trying to ignore the camera either. “But I’m happy to give you my opinion about that news. These dogs… In most ways they aren’t different from dogs we adopt out every day. We’re a shelter. Most of the dogs we take in have picked up undesirable behaviors. They swipe food off counters, tear up bedding and couches, eat shoes, you name it.

“Our goal is to redirect those behaviors and to help new owners do the same thing. And most of the time, it’s easier than you’d think. So that’s what we’re hoping to do now, just on a different scale. The dogs we’re bringing in have been trained to fight other dogs, but that’s a learned behavior. They may have a way to go, but in the end, it’s a matter of training and learning to trust.”

The reporter cocked her head as a half smile escaped. Kurt had the distinct feeling she was playing chess and calling check. “So the opinion of the High Grove Animal Shelter is that teaching one dog not to fight another dog to the death is no different from teaching another one to sit or stay? I can’t help but wonder how many viewers are shaking their heads at that.”

Even from the screen Kurt could see how Kelsey’s cheeks reddened. “I didn’t mean to imply it was the same thing. It’s a slower, more complicated process. Dogs naturally trust humans, but these dogs have been abused. They’ve been placed in environments where they have to fight to survive. So that’s the first goal: rebuilding trust. Typically, those bonds can be rebuilt easier than you’d think, considering the lives these dogs have had.”

“Typically.” The way the reporter weighted the word, it sounded profoundly impossible. “What is your response to critics’ claim that if you’re wrong, the price could be very steep indeed?”

Kelsey fell silent a second or two as her forehead knotted together. Kurt was willing to bet she’d all but forgotten the story was airing live. “My response is that while I’m committed to complete caution, I’m also committed to second chances. Just last week, Channel 3 aired a story about a ten-year-old boy who’d been caught stealing, and it turned out he’d been taught it by his mom. He’d been stealing for her ever since he was in kindergarten. I don’t recall anyone wanting to prosecute him because of his mother’s poor judgment.

“These dogs…” Kelsey continued, closing her hands tightly at her sides. “They didn’t have any say in their lives either. They were bred or purchased or in some cases stolen off people’s property. Yesterday, I met a sweet Doberman whose microchip traced back to a caring home in Kansas. She was reported missing nearly a year ago, and her owners are overjoyed she’ll be coming home. They’re committed to helping recondition her. Fortunately, they aren’t turning their backs on her.”

She was angry and starting to ramble, Kurt thought. He wanted to shout oorah when she got back to the reporter’s accusation. “What I’d ask people to remember is that every one of the dogs who has been brought in has something in common with that Doberman. They didn’t ask to fight, but that’s the life they were handed. Just like that boy who didn’t ask to steal. We’re going to do our best to give these guys a second chance. A bit of support to do it is all we’re asking. Because that’s what everybody deserves, isn’t it? A second chance.”

Checkmate, Kelsey.

It was the reporter’s turn to fidget. She asked a few more questions before wrapping up, one about the location, which Kelsey wouldn’t disclose, and another about the number of dogs the shelter was taking. Thirty-seven. Kelsey divulged the number as if it were no different from the variety of flavors of ice cream. Like she had no idea what she was getting herself into.

When the interview was over, Kurt replayed it twice, trying not to fixate on Kelsey’s sculpted face and translucent expressions but doing it anyway. When he was finished, he headed to the counter and the cute barista. The little voice that had gotten him through everything so far screamed at him to ask for her number. To keep on the safer course.

Instead, he asked to borrow her phone.

He was half surprised when he remembered the number after not dialing it for so long. “Rob,” he said when his mentor answered on the third ring, “it’s me. Tommy Sintras… You got somewhere else you can send him?”

When Rob said yes but asked why, Kurt was nearly as surprised to hear his reply spoken aloud as Rob sounded. “Because I’m coming back up. I’ll take it. I’ll take the job.”