Through the window behind him, Pine Valley, Colorado spreads out in postcard perfection. Main Street with its brick storefronts and hanging flower baskets. The Rockies rising in the distance, still snow-capped even in late spring. A town so small everyone knows your business, sometimes even before you do.
A town where a Belgian Malinois tearing down Main Street has probably already made the rounds of the gossip circuit.
"You should go," my voice comes out softer than intended. "Before half the town shows up asking questions."
"Right." He blinks like he's waking up from something. "Yeah. Ranger and I have caused enough chaos for one Tuesday."
But he still doesn't move.
"The door's that way."
"I know where the door is."
"Could've fooled me, Bingo."
That gets him moving. He makes it three steps before turning back. "I'm Dean, by the way. Dean Mercer."
"Callie O'Connor." Why am I giving him my name? He can read it on the sign outside. "And I know."
"Know what?"
"That you know where the door is. You just didn't want to use it."
His grin returns, slower this time. Less performance, more genuine. It transforms his face from generically handsome to something more specific. More dangerous for me.
The last time I thought that about a man in uniform, I spent six months pretending I wasn't waiting for a call that never came.
"Maybe I was just enjoying the company."
"Maybe you should enjoy it somewhere else. Some of us have actual work to do."
"You always this friendly to new patients?"
"Ranger's not the patient, and you're just the guy who let him escape."
He opens his mouth—probably to deliver another line of charm that works better on people who haven't spent five years in the Denver dating scene before fleeing to a town where the most exciting Friday night involves bingo at the community center.
Not the game. The man standing in front of me just ruined that word forever.
"The lead frayed because someone's been chewing it," I say instead, derailing whatever he was about to say. "Check his crate, his bed, anywhere he spends time alone. If he's stress-chewing, you've got a bigger problem than escape attempts."
Dean's expression shifts. The charm fades, replaced by genuine focus. "Stress-chewing?"
"He's a working dog. High drive, high energy, high intelligence. If he's not getting enough mental stimulation, he'll find his own entertainment." My hand finds Ranger's head again, scratching behind his ear. "And based on how fast he settled once he had a job to do—sitting, staying, following commands—I'd guess he's bored."
The pilot stares at me for a long moment.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing." He shakes his head. "Just didn't expect a small-town vet to know that much about military K9 psychology."
"There's a lot you don't know about small-town vets." My chin lifts before I can stop it. "We don't just play with puppies all day."
"No?"
"Sometimes there's kittens too."
His laugh startles both of us. Ranger's tail wags at the sound.
