Chapter 1
Callie
Mrs. Hendricks is mid-sentence about her cat's bowel movements when the front door of my clinic crashes open hard enough to rattle the diploma frames on the wall.
A Belgian Malinois explodes through the waiting room like a furry missile, trailing a snapped leather lead behind him. Seventy pounds of military-grade chaos knocks over the magazine rack, sends my receptionist's coffee flying, and heads straight for exam room one.
Where I am.
With a very fragile, very irritated cat named Mr. Whiskers.
"Oh my," Mrs. Hendricks says, which is the understatement of the century.
The Malinois skids around the corner and freezes in the doorway, ears pricked, chest heaving. His eyes lock onto Mr. Whiskers. Mr. Whiskers, who has survived sixteen years of life by being meaner than anything that looked at him sideways, puffs up to twice his size and unleashes a hiss that could curdle milk.
The dog's tail drops.
Smart boy.
"Stay," my voice comes out calm, authoritative. The command voice I learned years ago working with anxious animals. "Sit."
The Malinois hesitates. His training wars with whatever squirrel-adjacent impulse sent him careening through downtown Pine Valley and into my Tuesday afternoon.
Training wins. His haunches hit the linoleum.
"Good boy." The tension in my shoulders loosens a fraction. "Mrs. Hendricks, if you could take Mr. Whiskers to exam room two? Linda will finish his checkup."
Mrs. Hendricks clutches her demon cat to her chest and scurries past the dog like he might explode. Fair assessment, honestly. His muscles are still coiled tight, quivering with the barely contained energy of a creature bred to chase down bad guys and look good doing it.
Once she's gone, the dog's posture softens. His tongue lolls out. He looks up at me with big brown eyes that sayI know I'm in trouble but please love me anyway.
Great. A charmer.
The broken lead tells the story. Frayed edge, not a clean snap—he's been working on this escape for a while. The collar tag reads RANGER with a Ridgeway Air Force Base registration number.
"Ranger, huh?" My hand finds the spot behind his ear, and his whole body melts into the touch. "You're a long way from the base, buddy. Someone's looking for you."
The front door bangs open again.
"Sorry—excuse me—has anyone seen a?—"
A man rounds the corner and stops dead.
His flight suit, rumpled, like he's been sprinting. Dark blond hair that's trying very hard to stay regulation-appropriate and failing. Eyes that scan the room, land on Ranger, and flood with relief.
Then they land on me.
The relief shifts into open curiosity, and my spine straightens before I can stop it.
"Oh, thank God." He braces one hand on the doorframe, catching his breath. "There you are you little traitor."
Ranger's tail wags. He does not move from his sit.
"Yours?" The question is unnecessary—the way the dog's ears perk at the man's voice tells me everything—but making him answer feels important.
"Technically the Air Force's." He flashes a grin that's probably gotten him out of trouble more times than it should have. "But yeah. We're partners."
The grin is annoying. The way it crinkles the corners of his eyes is more annoying. The single dimple on his left cheek is the most annoying thing that's happened to me all week, and Mrs. Hendricks's cat bit me on Monday.
