Caroline’s father had never really blamed him. Tall, with snow-white hair, he pastored a small church in Texas.
“Pastor Bennett.”
“We talked about this. Jonathon.”
“Mm-hmm.” Dawson closed his eyes, his hand across his forehead. Maybe he needed more painkillers.
“I just wanted to check in on you, son. See how you were doing.”
“Actually ... I...”
“Listen. Lottie and I were talking. Maybe you don’t know that we’re grateful for what you did to try and help our daughter. It’s possible that we didn’t ... well, I know that her death weighed on you, and we didn’t help lift that burden. But accidents happen, and we know that, even to strong women like our daughter.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t...”Keep my promise.“Bring her home.”
“I know. Her sister Heather had a baby girl this year. Named her Caroline. She looks just like her.”
He didn’t know what to say.
“You won’t be hearing from us again, Dawson. But if you ever need anything, please reach out. Caroline cared for you, and we do too.”
Oh. Uh ... “Thank you. And, Pastor Bennett—”
“Jonathon—”
“Yeah, um. Caroline was ... I did love her. And I never gota chance to tell her, really, but ... in the end, you should know, she wasn’t alone.”
“Thank you, Dawson. I know that.” His voice seemed to break a little. “Live in peace.”
Dawson pressed end and stared at the phone. Yes.
He got up, and barking echoed down the hall. Dawson spotted Caspian at the front door, his hackles raised.
Axel got off the stool, grabbed the dog by the collar. “Hey, bud. Friend, not food.” He pulled him back as the door opened.
A man stepped inside. Brown hair, growing out under a baseball cap, a down jacket, a military build about him. He held the leash of a black-and-brown, curly-haired Bernedoodle, who came in behind him.
Dawson took over for Axel. “Sit, Caspian.” The dog sat, his body tight, gaze on the other dog.
“Jericho Bowie. I heard you were back.” Dawson held out his hand. “Moose says you’re joining Air One Rescue.”
“Thinking about it. This your K9?”
Caspian barked, a sort of greeting, but stayed next to Dawson.
“Say hi, Orlando,” Jericho said, and held his leash as the two dogs sniffed each other.
“He’s not really a SAR K9,” Dawson said. “Apparently, he’s a PTSD-trained service dog. I’m going to do some training so we can get him certified to work at the hospital.”
Jericho raised an eyebrow. Looked at Caspian. “Seems to hold himself as if he knows SAR work.”
Dawson looked at him. “He did find ... well, maybe.”
Jericho knelt in front of him. “Wanna come and work for Jericho? Get a real job?”
“Hey,” Dawson said.
Jericho stood up. “Aw, I’m just messin’ with you. PTSD service animals are highly trained and desperately needed. Is that pizza?”
