She stays until midnight, until the wine is gone and the ice cream is nothing but a memory and I've stopped crying. When she finally leaves, extracting promises to text her in the morning, the house feels too quiet.
The front porch is cool under my bare feet. Biscuit follows, nails clicking on wood. The night air is sharp, smelling like pine and spring rain. The mountains are dark shapes against darker sky, their snow-capped peaks barely visible in the moonlight.
Dean's truck is long gone. The road in front of my house is empty.
But I'm still here. Still standing. Still breathing.
Still terrified of how badly I want to say yes.
Biscuit nudges my leg, and I reach down to scratch behind his ears.
"What do you think, buddy? Am I making a huge mistake?"
He licks my hand. No judgment. Just dog love and the promise that whatever happens, he'll still be here.
The porch steps are cold. Biscuit settles against me, warm and solid, and I stare at the place where Dean's taillights disappeared.
Texas. I don't even know where Iron Creek is. Just somewhere in a state the size of three Colorados. A K9 operation that needs a vet.
And me, sitting here in Pine Valley, already knowing what I'm going to do.
Just not ready to do it yet.
Chapter 10
Dean
"Again," I bark at Ranger.
He gives me a look that clearly sayswe've done this eight times already, but he's a good dog. He runs the obstacle course again—weaving through poles, jumping barriers, hitting every mark with precision that would be impressive if I wasn't currently using his training as a substitute for punching something.
The Colorado sun beats down on the training yard. My flight suit is unzipped to my waist, T-shirt soaked through with sweat. Ranger finishes the course and sits at my feet, tongue lolling, waiting for praise I can't quite manage.
"Good," I mutter. "Again."
"Mercer."
The voice cuts across the yard like a command. Sergeant Major Alan "Top" Grady stands at the fence line, arms crossed over his barrel chest, weathered face set in an expression I've learned to recognize:You're about to get your ass handed to you.
"Sir," I acknowledge.
"That's enough."
"We're just?—"
"That's enough," he repeats, steel in every syllable. "Whatever's eating you, sort it out before you hurt my dog."
My dog.Like Ranger belongs to Top personally. Like I'm just borrowing him and doing a piss-poor job of it.
He's not wrong.
Ranger heels at my signal as I cross the yard. Top doesn't move, just watches me approach with those eyes that have seen three decades of soldiers trying to hide their problems.
"You going to talk about it?" he asks.
"Not particularly."
"Don't care if you want to. Asked if you're going to." He jerks his head toward the bench in the shade. "Sit."
