Rescue Me

by Catherine Mann

  “How about a muffin on the run, Gramps?” She patted the pan of apple nut muffins still warm from the oven. “We have to get to Fort Campbell.”

  He glanced down at his open uniform jacket her mom had aired out for him. Probably at about four in the morning since her supermom insisted she never needed anything so mundane as sleep. But Sierra could see her mother fraying around the edges, the little weaknesses slipping through, such as lost files and forgotten errands.

  And God, that thought sounded petty to nitpick, but this was a crummy day, going to pick up a dog her father had found overseas—as if there weren’t already enough animals here at her mother’s rescue. As if there weren’t already enough reminders of her dead dad. She blinked back tears. Was it so wrong to want some part of her life that wasn’t military issued and full of good-byes?

  Sierra pushed aside dreams of Innisfree and patted her grandfather’s shoulder, right over the two shiny stars. “General, you are looking mighty fine today.”

  “A good soldier never forgets how to polish his shoes or shine his brass.” He grimaced at the rare second’s understanding at how much of himself he’d lost.

  “Mighty fine shiny shoes and brass they are, General.”

  “I taught your dad, too.” He looked up at her quickly with eyes as blue as her own. “Maybe he can show you when he gets back today. It’s not too late for you to get a commission, you know. They let women in the Army now.”

  “Sure, Gramps.” She didn’t even wince anymore at references to her dad coming home. Alzheimer’s had its perks for some. Like not knowing your son got blown up by a roadside bomb.

  Gramps straightened the uniform tie, shirt buttons perfect even though he couldn’t zip his own jeans anymore. General Joshua McDaniel had drawers full of track suits and T-shirts he wore with his American Legion ball cap. All easy to tug on. Yet, his fingers worked the buttons of his uniform jacket now with a muscle memory of long-ago tasks, a mystery of Alzheimer’s that she’d learned not to question.

  At least her mom would be happy about the uniform, and Lacey could use some happiness in her life. If getting this dog made her smile, then so be it. Sierra would suck it up and pretend seeing the mutt didn’t make her want to stand in a Tennessee cornfield and scream Emily Dickinson dirge poems at the top of her lungs.

  Knowing who brought the dog made it tougher. If things had been different . . . well . . . Hell. She still wouldn’t have been here waiting for Mike Kowalski.

  But she would have thought about him returning home today, would have lifted up a prayer of relief that he’d made it back safely, then moved on with her life. Instead, she could only think about her father. His funeral. The twenty-one gun salute still echoed in her ears louder than the pack of barking dogs outside.

  Sierra willed away tears with a couple of lines from a bawdy Shakespearean sonnet and grabbed a muffin for herself. The family just needed her to hang on here a little while longer until she could move out in a guilt-free way only her multitasking mother could have devised.

  Lacey had used some of the insurance money to renovate the barn loft into a studio apartment. Noisy. But with total solitude for Sierra. She could live there while she finished graduate school next year. She would have some independence, and Mom would still have an emergency backup for when General Gramps wandered off to get eggs, milk and Diet Cokes for his wife who’d been dead for ten years.

  Or called out for a son who’d been blown up in Iraq.

  Ever the soldier, General Joshua McDaniel marched one foot, then two, then started up again with his coffee on the way out of the kitchen. “They say that in the Army the training’s mighty fine . . . Last night there were ten of us, now there’s only nine . . .”

  Her stomach knotted with the realization.

  Gramps knew on some level that his son was gone.

  She had about three seconds to grieve over that before she also realized—damn—Grandpa was tugging the car keys off the hook by the door. What had her mom been thinking leaving them there? They couldn’t do that anymore.

  “Uhm, General, the motor pool is sending over a car,” she improvised.

  He looked back, blue eyes confused, keys dangling.

  She plucked the chain from his hand and passed him the muffin while hiding the keys in her jeans pocket. “Don’t forget to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry,” he grumbled, “and I don’t forget jack shit.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Where are my keys?”

  “Haven’t seen them.” Easier to lie sometimes. Safer, too. Gramps may have muscle memory for uniforms, but not so much when it came to driving a car.

  “Allen must have taken the Chevy to go out on a date with that girl Lacey. Now Millie”—he stared straight into Sierra’s eyes and called her by his dead wife’s name—“make sure that freeloading son of ours doesn’t leave the car with an empty tank.”

  “Sure . . .” She patted him on his stars, something tangible left of the indomitable man she remembered.

  Pivoting away, she raced up the back stairs, leaving her grandfather in the kitchen where he was stuck somewhere in the twentieth century. She wouldn’t have minded escaping back a decade or two herself. Or maybe more.

  But Innisfree was clearly out of reach today.

  * * *

  STAFF SERGEANT MIKE Kowalski never had anyone waiting for him when he returned from overseas deployments. And yeah, both times, he’d wondered what it would feel like to be the focus of one of those star-spangled reunions with family all around.

  But not this way.

  He just wanted to hand over the dog to the McDaniel family. Keep his cool around Sierra. Then dive into bed for a decent night’s sleep on clean sheets.

  Well, after he dived into a six-pack of cold beers.

  He hitched his hand around Trooper’s leash. Thank God, the short-haired tan and brown mutt looked enough like a Belgian Malinois that most folks assumed Trooper was a military working dog. Shit would hit the fan eventually over how he’d circumvented official channels, but he would deal with that later. He’d spent his life getting out of trouble. Even joining the Army had been a part of a plea bargain with a high school mentor.

  Bluffing and bravado came easy to him. After all, he’d learned from the best growing up with a con artist grandmother who’d scammed Social Security checks in the name of three dead relatives.

  A hand clapped him on the back just as his battle buddy Calvin “Pinstripe” Franklin hefted his rucksack over his shoulder. “Sergeant Major’s gonna chew your ass over bringing this dog back.”

  “Won’t be the first or last time that happens.” Mike adjusted his hold on the leash and his duffel, his guitar case slung over his back. He’d come by the nickname “Tazz” honestly. Wherever he went, a whirlwind of trouble followed.

  “For what it’s worth, Tazz, I think what you’re doing for the Colonel’s memory is cool.” Their boots clanged against the cargo hold’s metal floor one step at a time as they filed toward the open load ramp. A marching band played patriotic tunes with a brassy gusto. A John Philip Sousa marching song segued into “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

  “A lecture and a write-up aren’t all that intimidating after what we’ve seen.” Most folks had flashbacks of sounds, gunfire, explosions. For him? It was the smells that sent him reeling. The acrid stench of explosives. Jet fuel. Singed hair.

  Blood.

  Focus on the scent of clean sheets, damn it. “Quit sweating, Pinstripe. You’ll draw attention to us.”

  “You must not have been chewed out by the Sergeant Major lately, or you wouldn’t be so chill,” Calvin said, trudging ahead along the metal grating. Clang. Clang. “Just keep your head low. It’ll go a lot easier for you if you don’t make a big deal out of things now. Low-key. Walk down the ramp. Hand over the dog to his new family. Come party with us. There’s a keg wi
th your name written on it. A babe, too, if you play it right, a military groupie ready to give a soldier a warm, lap dance welcome home.”

  He winced. Hand over the dog then party as if this was no big deal? Except it was more than that. Facing the family of his fallen commander. Facing the Colonel’s daughter. Sierra.

  Low-key.

  Keep it low-key.

  His hand slid down to scratch Trooper’s head, bristly fur clean and flea-free thanks to the under-the-table care from the veterinarian at their forward operating base—FOB. Mike flipped Trooper’s ear back in place, then patted. He wasn’t sure who it calmed more, him or the dog.

  Mutt at his side, he stepped from the belly of the plane and into the blinding afternoon sunlight. U.S. of A. soil. Fort Campbell. The Army post sprawled along the border of Tennessee and Kentucky. The scent of fresh-mown hay rode the breeze, blanketing the smell of jet fuel just enough that Mike could shove thoughts of war to the back of his brain.

  He’d made it home alive. Adrenaline evaporated from him like water steaming off the hot tarmac. His arms dropped to his side. His duffel slid from his fingers as he breathed in the scent of wheat and barley so thick it was damn near an intoxicating brewery of aromatherapy.

  Soldiers jostled by, bumping his shoulders, but his boots stayed rooted, his body weighted by an exhaustion a year in the making. Then the world tilted. His arms jerked.

  Trooper yanked free.

  Crap.

  His guitar strap slipped. Mike regained his footing, but too late. Trooper shot forward toward the roped off area of bystanders. Toward families. The band. Official post personnel.

  Media.

  Trooper’s full-grown size, powered by puppy energy and a lack of sense, turned the mutt into a speeding, barking missile. Mike jockeyed from foot to foot, gauging which way to go. Was the dog headed for the big grill puffing burger-scented smoke into the wind? Trooper’s nose definitely lifted to catch a whiff of something as he plowed forward.

  The overgrown pup knocked over a tuba stand. Uniformed band members skittered to the side just as the massive brass instrument toppled and “The Star-Spangled Banner” warbled to a premature end.

  Calvin jogged alongside him mumbling, “Sergeant Major’s gonna be pissed.”

  Screw it. Low-key was clearly out of the question now. Mike hitched up his bag, which conveniently knocked his guitar in place again, and charged forward. He shouldered sideways past the orderly line of soldiers.

  “Trooper, come,” Mike ordered.

  And the dog ignored the command.

  Of course.

  Trooper could sniff out an intruder in the dead of night. The mutt could dodge land mines to fetch a ball. But at heart, he was still a puppy accustomed to free roam of his world.

  Mike picked up speed, boots pounding as he raced toward the loping mutt. He didn’t think Trooper would hurt anyone. The dog hadn’t shown feral tendencies since those first few weeks at the camp. But one false move from this dog—already on shaky ground with his entry to the U.S.—and it would be all over. His promise to the Colonel would be broken in the worst way possible.

  Where the hell was Trooper going? Mike scanned the crowd of faces. Women with babies on their hips and in strollers. Men, too. Families as well as some hoochied-up girlfriends. A sea of waving flags and signs.

  Welcome Home.

  Love My Soldier.

  People and signs parted like the Red Sea as fifty-five pounds of dog dodged and wove. Mike could only follow until the masses veed open to reveal . . .

  The very family he’d been sent to meet. The McDaniel clan. Except his eyes homed in on the one that had drawn him from the first time he’d seen her at a platoon baseball game cheering in the stands.

  Sierra. The daughter of his mentor. Off-limits. Untouchable. And total Kryptonite to a man who’d spent twelve long months dreaming of her citrusy scent to escape the pungent stench of war.

  Mike had all of three seconds to soak up the sight of her blond hair shining so brightly in the sun he could almost smell lemons. Three seconds before . . .

  Trooper leapt into the air and knocked Sierra flat on her back.

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