Page 55 of Sit, Stay

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 says we'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."

I sit. Just like Ranger. Same tone, same expectation of immediate compliance. At least Top doesn't make me shake his hand first. Ranger flops at my feet with a grateful sigh, clearly relieved to be done with whatever personal hell I was putting him through.

Top settles beside me, pulling a water bottle from his cargo pocket and tossing it my way. I catch it, crack it open, drain half in one go. Pour the rest into my palm for Ranger, who laps it up gratefully.

We sit in silence for a solid minute. It's a Top Grady specialty—letting silence do the heavy lifting until you break down and fill it.

"I asked someone to move with me," I finally say. "To Texas. To Iron Creek."

"The vet?"

Of course he knows. Everyone on this base knows everything. It's like living in a very regimented small town where the gossip network has security clearance.

"Yeah."