Shelter Me (6 page)

Some soldier was getting one helluva welcome home. Sounded like a professional welcome. The dude’s fourth so far.

The other wall leeched the occasional sound of a baby crying. Mike plucked the strings on his guitar to create a sound barrier against the world. He picked through familiar riffs and ones he’d written himself. He wasn’t good with the words, just the tunes. His beat-up old acoustic had helped him pass a lot of hours overseas.

His grandmother had encouraged him to play. One of the more honest skills she’d endorsed—definitely more appropriate than using poker to tutor him in math. Although he had to confess, she’d been a formidable gambler. He’d been tossed out of two casinos on suspicion of card counting.

She’d also taught him to be thrifty, which had worked in her favor when she drained his savings account not long after he’d deployed. She’d said she needed to pay off her car, but when she’d died there wasn’t a car. And he hadn’t even had a chance to say good-bye to the only person who’d taken time to parent him.

He had no place to go. He’d given up his apartment and put his belongings in storage—not much, some clothes and a wide-screen television. Why accumulate things when he would only have to move them or have them taken away by a relative who needed them more while he was gone?

A motel suited him fine for now. He preferred his digs to come already furnished. Less mess. Fewer entanglements like roommates or relationships to deal with while he got his head on straight after a long deployment overseas and readied himself for the next. Because there was always a next deployment.

Hanging out here by himself, he didn’t have to pretend to be nice. Or normal. He was jumpy and empty. Every sound had him resisting the urge to hit the deck or punch a wall. Some called it battle stress. He didn’t care about naming it, just getting through it.

After he’d locked himself in the room, he’d emptied his weapon and stowed his ammo to be sure he didn’t accidentally draw on a pizza delivery guy who honked his horn or a family on vacation in a car that backfired. God forbid anyone set off fireworks. He’d be flipping a table on its side to make a barricade before anyone could shout, “Happy Flag Day.”

Mike set his guitar aside and leaned forward to tear off another piece of pizza—topped with loads of meat. He popped open a lukewarm soda. He’d emptied a couple of longnecks last night for his own welcome home party with some late show that made pop culture references he’d lost track of while overseas.

A
scratch, scratch, scratch
echoed outside.

He stopped chewing. Probably just something brushing against the door. Chill. Out. He bit off more pizza and forced himself to chew extra times so he wouldn’t choke due to the panic constricting his throat.

The
scratch, scratch, scratch
continued, definitely against the door. What the hell? He tossed the pizza crust back in the box. He reached for his 9mm—

Shit.

It took every ounce of restraint to move his hand away and walk to the door like a normal guy, in a normal motel room. Granted, it was a normal,
cheap
motel room. He peered through the nice normal peephole and saw . . . nothing.

Scratch. Scratch.

Okay, alarms were seriously buzzing in his war-fogged brain. He pushed back the curtain on the window next to the door and—

Thud!

He screamed like a damn five-year-old, leaping back before he realized a dog skidded down the glass, then jumped up again. Recognition hit him like a blow to the chest. Trooper. The stunned feeling eased, replaced by something else entirely. Was Sierra outside?

Mike slid the chain, flipped the bolt and flung the door wide. No Sierra. No people period. His gaze slid down. Sure as hell, Trooper sat in front of his door with a battered tennis ball in his mouth and tail wagging, brown eyes doing that talking thing again.

Wanna play?

*   *   *

SIERRA CURSED THAT
damn missing mutt as she sagged against the porch post. Exhausted. Defeated.

She scraped her wrist under her eyes, then her nose, crying like a baby over a dog she didn’t even really like. Of course she hadn’t gotten a chance to know the ornery beast beyond feeling jealous Trooper got to spend time with her dad during his last days on earth.

Hiccupping, she stared at the empty gravel road leading out to the highway. Woods sprawled to the left. On the right, their distant, cranky neighbors lived in a brick ranch house. They hadn’t seen Trooper, either, and if they had, they damn straight would have called Animal Control first rather than let Lacey know.

Sierra had helped her mom search the neighborhood and woods for five hours with no luck. To make matters worse, Trooper had ditched his collar before he’d left their property. They’d found the bright red collar with tags lying in the dirt. The dog was scheduled to be neutered and microchipped tomorrow, which didn’t help them today. They’d finally agreed to take a break and regroup at home.

Her mom was calling every shelter in a hundred-mile radius. Lacey had them all on speed dial since she worked rescues with all of them. If Trooper landed anywhere else, she would be notified.

If.

Of course, thanks to her mom’s rescue work Sierra knew the thousand other “ifs” that could have happened to Trooper. If he hadn’t been hit by a car. If he wasn’t starving on the streets. If he hadn’t eaten mushrooms or a zillion other toxic things that lurked in the woods.

And then there were all the horrible people in the world who did terrible things to stray animals. She’d seen the fallout from those neglect and cruelty cases every time her mother drove home from the shelters with her latest residents joining the Second Chance Rescue. These dogs, cats—not to mention a miniature pony, snake, goat and other critters—came with sad-sack histories that even a shelter couldn’t rehab and rehome.

How could Trooper have survived life as a feral pup in Iraq and a trip across the ocean, only to run away on his first day with a real family? Somehow, she felt like this was her fault, that she’d let her dad down on the very last thing he’d needed from her. Her breath hitched on a hysterical sob, one far beyond plain old tears, a gut-deep sobbing session she hadn’t allowed herself in four months. She clenched her teeth together to hold it back.

She would not, could not lose control.

Longfellow. She needed some one-on-one time with Henry Wadsworth Longfellow right now, something like “The Day is Done.” She sucked in deep breaths of barley-scented air, grateful for the post behind her.
Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day . . .

The final lines were drowned out by Grandpa turning on his cassette player. “Amazing Grace” on the bagpipes rattled through the windows. He couldn’t work the CD player anymore, but he still knew how to operate a cassette player to make use of his collection, which remained in pristine condition along with his collection of John Wayne movies for the old VCR. He cranked the volume until the dogs howled in time with the bagpipes.

Her legs folded and she stumbled back into a rocking chair.

She was living in a freakin’ sitcom. Or a docudrama. Reality show? She wasn’t sure. Right now she just wanted her dad to materialize in the rocking chair beside her. He would say something like, “Sierra girl, I’ve loved your mom since we were seniors in high school and I saw her climbing a tree trying to put a baby bird back in a nest with the mama. You just need to roll with it. Lacey has a way of making all the craziness come together into something magnificent—like our family.”

Her dad had a gift for putting the mayhem into perspective, bringing a Longfellow type of calm, flavored with a splash of Ogden Nash–esque humor.

She missed her father so much. She pressed the heels of her hand to her eyes to hold back the tears that accomplished absolutely zip. Crying didn’t change anything. Did Gramps even remember bagpipes had played at her dad’s funeral?

The sound of an approaching car and their chocolate Lab barking her head off cut through the third verse. She tugged the neck of her T-shirt up to her eyes and wiped away tears, then smoothed the hem back in place.

Blinking fast, she cleared her sight and . . . oh crap. She recognized the old red truck rattling up the driveway. Mike’s truck. But why was he coming here? Her heart did that crazy flutter thing.

She squinted and realized he wasn’t alone. Someone sat in the passenger seat. She stepped up to the porch post and held on. Just in case her knees turned traitorously wobbly. Except it wasn’t a person in the front seat.

A dog stuck its head out the window, tongue lolling. And not just any dog. Trooper barked hello as if he’d just been out for a spin with his pal. She tried to wrap her brain around the fact that somehow, someway Trooper had jumped the fence and located Mike. Or Mike had found him, which didn’t make sense because he didn’t even know to look for the dog. Maybe they should have called him in the first place.

The twelve-year-old Ford stopped in front of her house, and she kept her eyes off the back where she’d lain on a quilt under the stars, tangled up with Mike and a crazy infatuation.

He stepped out, one long leg at a time, looking too hot in faded jeans and a rumpled brown T-shirt. “Did you lose something?”

She hooked her arm around the post and tried to appear casual. “I may have.” Lost her heart, once upon a time, to this guy in fact. “Cute dog you have there. He seems vaguely familiar.”

Trooper spun a quick circle on the seat before leaping out and onto the ground, sniffing Clementine in greeting once before galloping past the three-legged Lab over to Mike. Relief made her grip the post harder.

The screen door swung open and slammed against the side of the house. Lacey ran out, flip-flops slapping the wood porch all the way down the step as she chanted, “Ohmigod,” again and again.

She fell to her knees and wrapped her arms around Trooper’s neck. “You silly, naughty dog. What were you thinking running away like that?” She ran her hands over his fur as if checking for damage inflicted by the harsh, cold world. Never mind he’d survived in the desert on his own before sucking up to her dad. “Did someone tell you about your visit to the vet tomorrow? I promise to get you good drugs to sleep it off . . .”

Lacey paused long enough to gasp and bury her face in the dog’s scruff and extend an arm to include Clementine in the hug. Sierra stared at Mike over her mother huddled around the two dogs. Pain glinted in his eyes, something mighty like an echo of what radiated off her mom and what Sierra herself felt every day. Somehow she’d lost sight of how much Mike looked up to her father. So much so, Mike had walked away from her, from what they’d shared.

Her mother glanced up, her lopsided ponytail shifting. “I don’t know how to thank you enough, Mike. How did you find him? Or know to search? Did Sierra call you?”

Mike walked past the front of the truck, stopping beside her. “He showed up at my place.”

Standing, Lacey hugged Mike hard. “Well, thank you for bringing him home.”

He patted her shoulder awkwardly before backing away. “I was going to call, but my cell phone wasn’t charged and I tried once from the motel but your home phone went straight to voice mail, so I decided to just drive over.”

“I must have been talking to Animal Control when you phoned.” Lacey exhaled hard. “I’m just glad Trooper’s okay. I need to let all my shelter and rescue contacts know so they can cancel the alert . . .” She continued rambling her list of to-dos all the way into the house.

Leaving Sierra alone with Mike.

Awkward.

She rested her head against the porch post, eyeing Trooper on one side of Mike. Clementine ambled back up to the porch and flopped down in front of the door. Sure, the Lab only had three legs, but she was the alpha boss of the house and the other dogs knew it. “Mom’s rescue network is large. She’ll be on the phone for a long while.”

“Monster large, or so I hear.”

She winced. “That’s an understatement.”

“You’re not cool with her officially opening her own rescue?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Well, okay, it sorta was, but she felt guilty for not supporting her mom’s dream when her mother had always been there for her kids, often alone. But helping the local shelter was one thing. Making their home the point of contact for a full-fledged rescue took things to another level. “I’m not expressing myself well. I was just so worried. Trooper was gone. It’s not like he knows the neighborhood. What if he’d been hit by a car? Does he even understand regular traffic? My dad trusted us.”

Mike walked up the steps, long, loping strides bringing him closer to her. “Sierra, it’s okay now.” He rested a broad hand on her shoulder, squeezing once. “Trooper’s home. He’s safe. Your dad knew what he was doing when he sent him here.”

“Can we not talk about my father after all?” She was too close to losing it. Totally. Even the comforting touch threatened to send her flying into his arms. She held herself rigidly in control.

He seemed to get the message and backed up a step, slumping back against the opposite post. Trooper stayed plastered by his side, ears back. “The dog’s not a comfort, is he?”

“It’s not that.” She studied the wide brown puppy eyes staring back up at her, and she could swear she saw her father’s reflection in them. “He’s just a reminder.”

“Like I am.”

She looked up sharply. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Guilt and a little shame churned around inside her. “Thank you for bringing him here. We’ve been freaking out since we noticed he was missing early this morning.”

“He traveled a lot of ground to find me.” He crossed his feet at the ankles, wearing boat shoes with no socks. He pulled off casual so very well. “He must have been on the move the whole time.”

“Were you at a party?” The words fell out of her mouth before she could call them back. At least she didn’t ask if he was with a date.

“At my motel room”—he half smiled as if he could read her mind—“alone.”