by Traci Hall
“You can talk to me,” she said.
“I don’t need a shrink.”
Emma winced. “As a friend then.”
He jabbed his finger against the coffee table. “I don’t want to be friends. I think that kiss yesterday proved we have too much between us for that.”
“We agreed to start fresh.” Emma studied his stiff posture, the stress lines at the corners of his eyes, indents between his light brown brows. She wished she could kiss those stress marks away, but he was right. There was too much between them for her to offer anything less than her heart—and that, she firmly kept under lock and key.
“How about I just listen? No titles.” She spread her arms wide, palms up, her head to the side.
He needed to purge the poison from his subconscious in a healthy way. Meditation, yoga, centered breathing, traditional therapy. Accepting his emotions hurt like a bruise, but she opened herself to him anyway. Afterward, she would go the beach with one of the dogs to release the energy.
“I’m here because I promised Matthew I would get help for my nightmares. Obviously, they’re scary to him, but I can’t own a dog. I’m going back into the service as soon as Livvie gets home.”
She waited.
“It’s not fair to her.” Jackson met her eyes. “She’ll need less responsibility; taking care of Matty will be enough—maybe too much.”
When he paused, Emma quickly jumped in to explain. “A dog doesn’t have to be a permanent addition to the house. Some are placed in homes for a short time—to assist through rough patches.”
Jackson swallowed, his hand fisted on his denim-clad knee.
“Not long-term,” she repeated.
“Temporary?” he asked, as if to be very, very sure.
“Yes.”
He sat back, still scowling, but in thought rather than anger.
After a few minutes he said, “Thing is, I need to get back in the service. It’s a decent living, with good benefits. It’s who I am. I didn’t sign up to be a dad. That said, I won’t walk away from my family. For the first time since joining the Marines, I don’t know what to do.”
Emma saw his anguish as he was torn between duty to country or family. How Jackson viewed himself. “One of the first things you ever told me about yourself was that you were fourth generation military.”
“I did?”
“Yeah. But when Matty asked if he had to go, you didn’t say yes.” She curled her hands together in her lap.
“My dad wanted me to enlist,” Jackson said. “I owed it to his memory.”
How had she not figured that out? She’d gone into psychology trying to understand her mother’s illness. “Your dad would be proud of the man you are, Jackson, even if you were changing oil with Mitch at the auto shop for a living. You are a good man.”
Jackson gritted his teeth and dragged his gaze from the coffee table and his phone to Emma. “No, I’m not. You don’t understand war.” He turned back to the phone. “I didn’t realize how bad things were with my nightmares.”
She felt his pain, his uncertainty. “Is there any way to further delay your return?”
“I want to go. But now, after seeing this video, what if I’m a detriment to my unit?”
He rubbed his throat, as if it hurt to swallow.
“I’m here, Jackson, if you want to talk.”
He reached for her, and she placed her hand in his. “I trust you more than anybody else in my life. Anybody. But I can’t…share what I saw with you.”
Protecting her? “There is nothing about you that would make me think less of you.”
Jackson pulled his hand free. He’d witnessed his own mortality, she realized. As a soldier, someone who put his life on the line twenty-four hours a day, there had to be a part of your mind that didn’t accept death looming over your shoulder.
“I read that before you’re released into civilian life, you have to talk to a psychiatrist. Is there someone you can make an appointment with?”
“Yeah.” He leaned forward, his muscled back taut beneath his T-shirt. “The guy that passed me to come home on leave gave me a list of local doctors.” Jackson met her gaze, his haunted. “I’m career military, Emma. It’s what I do; it’s what my family does.”
His identity was wrapped in honor, integrity, loyalty—and he was being torn in different directions. “Then let’s figure out a way to get you better. In addition to talking to a psychiatrist, I know that we can train one of the dogs to wake you before the onset of a nightmare.”
“What’s the point, if I’m going to a shrink?”
He sounded low, dejected. She forgave his comment. “Sometimes it takes months to get into a doctor’s office, and the dog can help right now. Sleep makes a difference.”
“I get some.” He glared at the phone with the incriminating evidence.
“Not enough. Trusting that you will be woken before you have a nightmare will allow your body to fully relax.”
He said nothing. She hoped he was listening, finally.
“Working in tandem with your doctor as well as one of the dogs can get you into top shape before going back to your unit.” Where he’d be creating new fodder for nightmares, she thought, hiding her concern for him behind a patient smile. “Are you ready to move forward?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Jackson pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was up all night watching videos on PTSD. I get it, but you have to realize that understanding doesn’t change a damn thing. I have ten more years until retirement. Then I can fall apart.”
“That’s not how it works.” Emma heard the emotion in her voice and deliberately took a calming breath.
“Then tell me how.”
“You choose a dog.” She pointed to the pups gathered at the gate. It was not a surprise to her that Bandit was still sitting there, his canine gaze tracking Jackson.
“And?” Jackson wasn’t looking; he continued to glare at the phone as if the device was responsible for the upheaval in his life.
“We create a system. I come to your house and we set up monitors. Study your sleep patterns. Train the dog to wake you before you slip into a bad dream.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“It’s what I do.” She realized that her desire to help Jackson was braided with desire—period—and warned herself to take care.
His green eyes were a storm of clouded emotion, dulling their usual brightness.
“Matty was really scared. By me.” His voice broke, his shoulders hunched forward as if bowed by a great weight. “I’m the one he’s supposed to count on, and I didn’t listen to him.”
“You’re listening now,” she said, overcome by his sorrow. She blinked and sat up straight. “And before you beat yourself up too badly, remember that you have done a commendable thing, coming home to care for Matthew. I take it that his dad is out of the picture?”
“Yeah.”
“You are Matty’s uncle, and there are plenty of men out there who would pass off the job of his care to someone else. That’s not who you are.”
She couldn’t stop herself from reaching for him and settled on resting her hand on his knee for a second, the touch as light as a bird before it flew away.
“How do you know that?”
“It’s my job to know that.” All of her intuition agreed with her professional assessment.
“What do I do, Emma?” His low voice strummed across the few inches separating them.
She leaned over the coffee table, making sure they were eye to eye. “Let’s start with getting some sleep.”
Chapter Eleven
Emma watched with relief as Jackson allowed his head to fall back against the couch cushion, his eyes at half-mast. She understood that talking about a problem could be the beginning of healing.
She sat forward. “Now, which dog do you see suiting your lifestyle the best?”
They both looked over to the gate. Bandit stared back at them, his gray ears tipped up and alert.
For
the first time since he’d showed up at her doorstep, a smile crossed Jackson’s face. He unclenched the fist he had over his knee and walked to the gate, where he studied Bandit. He rubbed the back of the dog’s neck.
“I guess this one, right, boy?” Jackson opened the gate for Bandit to come through.
Emma, thrilled, didn’t see any point in waiting. She jumped up from her chair and hurried across the living room, her boots sinking into the padded carpet. “We can start today. Integrate Bandit into your household.”
“We have to be clear with Matthew that this is temporary.” Jackson looked at her, his voice and gaze hard. Tough. “Right?”
“Okay.” Emma stuffed her hands into her pockets.
“I don’t want his hopes up that we get to keep him.”
“I get it.”
“You promise you will take him back?”
“Bandit is a service animal in training. You know how I feel about the dogs, Jackson, and if you don’t, then, well, you don’t know me at all.”
“Sorry,” Jackson said. “I do know you.”
There was no guarantee that the nightmares would go away forever, but the mind was a powerful tool. Jackson never let his brain shut down completely, which meant it was on overdrive. Sleep provided a break from thinking, protecting, guarding.
“I don’t mind him being in the room,” Jackson said. “But I don’t want him on the bed.”
“We can set up a crate for Bandit—he needs to sense your changes in breathing—pre-nightmare.” She looked from Bandit to Jackson. “But it’s nice for him to have his own space, too. A place he knows he can go.”
“Sure.”
“I’ve got all that. I’ll pack food, a water dish. Toys.” She snapped her fingers. “I printed out some material on dog training and PTSD for you. We’ll use a clicker to train him to wake you up.” Emma walked to her office for the article, talking as she went down the hall. “You know they have special service animal phones to dial 911?”
“I don’t need a special phone,” Jackson said.
She returned to the living room, the article in hand. “I know. I was just saying. Dogs are so smart, but they feel, too.” Emma patted her heart. “And the training is important.”
“I feel kind of stupid,” Jackson mumbled.
Emma cocked her hip. “Why?” Stupid was so not an adjective she’d use for Jackson Hardy.
“I need a pet.” Jackson dragged out the last word. “I should be able to handle this on my own.”
Bandit growled his disapproval.
“Jackson,” Emma said, her throat tight, “you serve our country. That requires courage and maybe seeing or doing things that you wish you hadn’t. I thank you for that. But there are consequences.”
He waved her gratitude away, focusing on the back of Bandit’s head, which came to Jackson’s knee.
“I’m serious. And grateful. Coping with what is essentially a completely different life isn’t easy, and yet you have not only picked up the reins of your nephew’s world but done so with fairly little upheaval. I am not at all surprised that your past comes knocking at night, when you are vulnerable and tired.”
“I should be able to deal with it.” He looked toward the kitchen full of dogs, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.
“Says who?” Emma yearned to comfort him with a hug, or at least to hold his hand, but her own forbidden feelings made that impossible. Especially now that he’d come to her for help. As a client.
“Me.”
“Well, guess what? You’re choosing a way to handle it. The truth is that you might never get over your bad dreams, but between therapy and the ESD, you will be on your way to coping without the need for Red Bull.”
“I like Red Bull.” He paced across the floor. Bandit followed at his heels. “It’s like he understands what’s going on,” Jackson said.
Emma smiled. “Spooky, but in a great way.” Her phone dinged, and she read the text from Cindy at the shelter. “When it rains, it pours,” she said, looking at Lulu, snuggling in the kitchen with Pedro. “Someone requested Lulu after seeing her picture on the website. I’ve had her for almost seven months.” She’d gotten used to the idea that Lulu might always be around.
“Do you need to go?”
“Not yet, Jackson. Let’s get you and Bandit settled first. Tell you what—we can grab the supplies and bring him to your place. I’ll stop by after my shift at the shelter to see how you’re getting along. We can set up a routine for a better success rate.”
“What does that mean?” Jackson crossed his arms, the defiance back in the lift of his chin.
“Well, no caffeine after noon, no alcohol or spicy food.”
He scowled.
“Sleep in your bedroom each night. Go to bed at the same time.”
“I’m not a child,” Jackson said.
As if she wasn’t very aware of that fact? He exuded testosterone as if needing to prove who was top dog with each breath. “These are guidelines for what works.”
“Matthew has more leeway.” His green eyes narrowed, and Emma sensed he was on the verge of changing his mind.
“I’m not saying that you have to do it, just that it helps. You said you trusted me, Jackson.”
“Are you going to sleep with me too?” His brow winged upward, and he speared her in place.
Emma’s cheeks heated, remembering how they used to have no problem fitting on her old twin bed. She swallowed hard and stuffed her phone into her shorts’ pocket. “Not with you, with you.” She decided right then to call Sawyer, because he had more experience with war veterans than she did. “I don’t think—”
“Hell, no.” He shook his head. “No way.”
Emma watched as Jackson allowed Bandit to lean against his leg, subconsciously taking comfort from the dog.
She knew Bandit could help, but it required time and training. “You wouldn’t have to know that I was even there.”
“Because you won’t be.”
Getting Bandit into the home without specific training wouldn’t work. “Jackson, please. We need to come up with a plan.”
“What kind of plan?”
“We can choose.” She handed him the papers she’d printed on dog training and PTSD.
He took them without reading what they were and rolled them into a tube. “No…never mind.”
Her heart sank. “Why?”
“This is way too much.” Jackson lifted his hand from the top of Bandit’s head. “I’m not ready.”
She felt his panic. Anxiety magnified across his handsome features. “For what, Jackson?”
“I need to call the shrink, then we can see—it wouldn’t be right to Matty, bringing Bandit home and then asking him to give the dog up.”
Emma nodded, seeing right through the ruse but going along with it even though her heart was breaking. What mattered was that Jackson got help, especially since he was going back to his unit overseas. “You’re right. That is a good idea.”
“Yeah?” He shoved his right hand into his front jeans’ pocket and pulled out the keys to his motorcycle. “Listen, I’m sorry that I bothered you.”
“It was no bother. It is no bother. Maybe ask your psychiatrist about having a dog. Bandit. Just for a while. I will check with Sawyer. He’s done this kind of training before. I’ll ask him for the least intrusive way to train Bandit to wake you up.” She half smiled.
Emma leaned against the wall of the hallway, facing Jackson and the front door, the dogs behind the gate blocking them in the kitchen and watching every word they bantered back and forth.
Bandit sat at Jackson’s side, emitting a low rumble from his chest.
“So why don’t you go home, call your doctor, and then let’s talk again tomorrow or the next day? We will be right here.” Emma was proud of herself for not adding any pressure when she wanted to take him by the hand and walk with him as he headed into the unknown.
Just like before, he hadn’t trusted her to be his partner.
; Jackson backed up toward the door. Bandit looked from her to Jackson in confusion.
She snapped her fingers to her side, and Bandit, reluctantly, tail and ears down, joined her as Jackson closed the door.
Emma watched out the peephole as he practically ran to his bike and sped away.
“Not this time, Bandit.” Emma dropped to her knees to look into the dog’s brown eyes. “You are a very intuitive pup, aren’t you? Jackson needs us. You.” She ruffled the fur at his neck. “Good boy.”
…
Jackson didn’t need anybody other than Matthew. God, he’d almost made a huge mistake, bringing Bandit home.
But the dog had made him feel better somehow. What if the nightmares came because he deserved them? What if he deserved the nightmares because of what he’d done in the name of war?
He parked the bike next to his truck and went inside. Matty sat at the small dining room table chowing down on a bowl of cereal, the book on golden retrievers open in front of him.
Jackson poured himself a cup of coffee. “How’s the book?”
“Cool. Did you know that golden retrievers are the third most popular pet in America?”
“No.”
“Yeah, it’s true. Because they’re so friendly. And really smart.”
Jackson drank from his mug, leaning his butt against the counter as he waited for more from Mr. Encyclopedia.
“They are easy to take care of, and even though they have long hair, all you have to do is brush them.”
He waited.
“Bandit is part golden retriever,” Matty said in an offhand manner.
The kid was good, Jackson would give him that. “Yeah. I remember Emma telling us that.”
Matthew looked up from his bowl of cereal, a droplet of milk on his lower lip. “Did you talk to her?”
“Yes.”
“Uncle Jackson!”
“We had a nice conversation.”
Matty let his spoon fall against the plastic of the bowl. “And?” His bright eyes and earnest expression made Jackson wish he really was a superhero.