As he drew a shuddering breath, his expanding chest took on the burly dimensions he would eventually grow into, inherited from his father. A frisson of alarm shot to the ends of Maya’s fingertips. What if he grew too large and rebellious for her to handle?
If only Ian were still here.
“Fine,” he snarled, relieving her for the time being. But then he wheeled toward the wall closest to him and punched it—hard.
Maya gaped, not believing that her son had just plowed his fist into the wall. But there was no mistaking the impression of Curtis’s knuckles as he snatched his hand back and wheeled away, rubbing his bruised flesh and hissing with discomfort.
“Well that’s one more thing that will need fixing,” she pointed out before turning away and stalking to her bedroom to change her clothing. “You can put away the groceries I bought while you’re cleaning up,” she tossed over her shoulder.
Closing and locking her door, she threw herself across her bed, hugged a pillow to her chest, and stared sightlessly at the painting hanging next to her bed—a watercolor of a smiling Ian she’d commissioned after his death. She’d been determined to keep him in her thoughts, a part of her life no matter what.
Funny, but when she stared at his face while lying horizontal, he looked a bit like Rusty Kuzinsky who also kept his hair cut short—except Rusty’s hair was auburn where Ian’s had been chestnut. Both men had brown eyes, though Rusty’s were darker, like twin ponds at night. They seemed to hold the most profound thoughts.
Bronco had told her that, following retirement, Rusty was starting up a retreat where active duty SEALs could recuperate following especially tough assignments. He wanted to help them exorcise their demons, to heal and adjust to peacetime before returning to their families.
Ian could have used a place like that. He’d always been so jumpy and irritable his first few weeks back from an overseas tour.
Rusty’s charity only added to all the appealing traits she’d noted about him. It made her feel shallow for holding a grudge against him all these years. How could she resent a man who considered the welfare of others to such an extent that he shaped his life’s purpose around it?
But if she forgave him completely, then this shroud in which she’d lain dormant might become something like a cocoon, transforming her into something altogether new. Change was frightening. It was safer to stay the way she was, clinging to bitterness, and raising her rebellious son as best she could.
Chapter Two
‡
MOVING FROM ROOM to room in the eight-bedroom farmhouse he’d restored, Rusty jotted down the items still requiring his attention.
In just five days, his first lodgers would arrive—members of SEAL Team 3, home-based in Coronado. They would stay at Never Forget Retreat for two weeks before returning home. This place would be their halfway house—a place to shed the mantle of war, to calm an overly responsive nervous system, and to begin feeling human again.
Taking in all that he’d done, Rusty basked in self-satisfaction. The bedrooms, painted in manly blues, greens, and grays, invited occupants to take their rest on the brand-new mattresses all donated by companies around Virginia Beach.
Most of the furniture was second hand, but he had an eye for what styles and eras went with what—traditional with contemporary, antique with retro-chic. All those nights of lowering the blinds so he could watch the Home and Garden channel in secret had apparently paid off. From the pillows tossed on inviting armchairs to the bedding and artwork, each room felt like a place to find rest.
With his small checklist started, Rusty headed down the front staircase, pleased when the treads didn’t give even the tiniest squeak. On the lower level, he’d removed many of the original walls to create an open-concept floor plan.
A large parlor with a piano original to the house funneled guests from the foyer toward the living area and then to the farm-style kitchen that occupied the addition at the rear of the house. French doors on the right side of the living area led to an expansive sunporch with wicker furniture and potted plants.
Sweeping stairs bisected the house, leaving room at the front for an enclosed library with built-in bookcases overflowing with books on every subject. To the rear, the formal dining room with its Italian-style table and high-backed chairs offered seating for up to twenty. Rusty had contracted with two different cooks to whip up meals daily—though, truth be told, he wished he could do the cooking himself.
Of course, he would be too busy arranging activities for the men to have time to cook. SEALs were used to having a constant objective. Lounging around doing nothing wouldn’t cut it. Thus, Rusty stored an arsenal full of paintball guns and a fleet of used all-terrain vehicles in the barn beside the house—all donated by patriotic store owners who’d responded to his appeals.
He had diving equipment for anyone wanting to swim up the creek to the sound, cornhole equipment, a permanent volleyball net out back, and plans to build an obstacle course.
His neighbors, the Digges family, owned a stable full of horses and offered trail rides at discounted prices should Rusty’s guests show any interest. The trails in the woods offered long walks and fresh air and a place to play war games. And the creek offered ample opportunity to catch catfish or go crabbing.
In addition to the cooks who would come in daily, Rusty had partnered with local artists, musicians, writers, counselors, and wellness experts—scheduling them to visit the men, illustrating various ways of coping with the horrors branded in their minds, either from their most recent tour or from an accumulation of their military experience.
I’m almost ready, he assured himself. All he needed were the few crowning touches that he had jotted onto his note pad.
Crossing to the piano, he trilled the recently-tuned keys while surveying the lower level with a critical eye. Ah, yes. The door to the powder room reminded him. He still needed a trash bin in there—off-white metal with a raised design to match the framed prints hanging on the beige walls.
The sound of a vehicle barreling up his dirt driveway had him spinning toward the window in anticipation of a hostile force. Of course, there was no enemy. But beyond the front porch with its assortment of colorful rockers, a black, government issued SUV kicked up dust in its haste to reach his house.
Behind a tinted windshield, he made out a youthful and unfamiliar face. The SUV braked, and the driver, dressed in fatigues, leaped out from behind the steering wheel, slamming his door shut. With a harried glance at the back of his SUV, he hurried toward Rusty’s front door.
What the hell is this about?
With a thought for the Gerber blade hidden under his pant leg, Rusty went to answer the man’s sturdy knock. Years of service in faraway, dangerous places made him cautious when opening a door, but the young man’s earnest gaze banished his concerns right away.
“Master Chief Kuzinsky?”
Given the desperation oozing out of the young man, Rusty knew an impulse to deny his identity. “Retired,” he said, glancing at the patches on the man’s BDU jacket. Apparently, he was a marine sergeant with the last name of Mata.
Rusty’s retirement was clearly news to the jarhead. “Oh, congratulations,” he said.
“How can I help you?” Rusty asked.
Sergeant Mata gestured toward his vehicle and that’s when Rusty heard it—the unmistakable bark of a Belgian Malinois—grating, persistent, like an intermittent alarm going off. “I’ve brought you the service dog you asked for.”
Rusty’s brain short-circuited for the second time in two days.
“I never asked for a service dog.” He stepped back tempted to close the door in the man’s face.
Sergeant Mata frowned down at his paperwork. “But you did,” he insisted. “Back in 2012, you left a request at Lackland asking to get Draco when he was retired from service.”
“Draco?” With a feeling like he’d been kicked in the gut, Rusty looked back at the black SUV. “That’s Draco in there?”
“Y
es, Master Chief—I mean, sir. He’s nine now, too old for another tour. My orders say you signed up to adopt him if anything happened to his handler.”
“Nichols,” Rusty breathed, naming Draco’s handler. “What happened?”
Mata shook his head. “He was killed two weeks ago. Explosives were buried deep under the road, and Draco didn’t catch the scent.”
Nichols’ youthful face and ready smile panned through Rusty’s mind, memories snagging on his heart and tearing through it.
“It wasn’t the dog’s fault,” the soldier defended the military war dog. “He should’ve been retired years ago. He was just so good at what he did.”
Rusty had to clear his throat to find his voice. “What about Draco. Was he hurt?”
“He was caught at the edge of the blast. It concussed him but he’s okay now, as you can hear.”
What Rusty heard was sixty pounds of frustration. He so did not need a dog right now. But Sergeant Mata’s expression spoke of sheer dread at the thought of returning Draco to wherever they’d come from—all the way from Lackland? What’s more Rusty made a point of honoring his obligations. He couldn’t back out on this one, just because the timing wasn’t great.
“I guess he’s my dog, then.” Resignation vied with a tingle of excitement. “Go ahead and bring him in.”
The relief that lit up the sergeant’s face assured Rusty that he’d done the right thing. He stepped out onto the veranda, watching while the sergeant went back to the SUV and opened the rear hatch. The dog was obviously crated inside. Mata reached in to unlatch the crate, and a tornado exploded out of the SUV, sailing over the man’s shoulder and landing in the driveway where it took off like a shot for the tree line.
“Draco!” Mata yelled, watching him go while holding an empty leash in his hands.
Ho, boy.
It’d been four years since Rusty had watched Nichols work with the dog, but he distinctly remembered the way the handler called him. Good thing Rusty could whistle the same way.
The instant his high-pitched, lilting call carried across the yard, the dog screeched to a halt, lifted his leg on a bush, then trotted steadily toward Rusty, his gaze watchful, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth.
At the bottom of the steps, the dog abruptly halted, staring up at him and panting hard.
Rusty squatted and held out a hand. “Hey, Draco,” he crooned. “Remember me, buddy?”
The dog’s tall, pointed ears swiveled in his direction. He closed his mouth to scent the air. Sergeant Mata had frozen, watching with a hopeful expression.
Returning the intelligent brown gaze of the dog resembling a small German Shepherd, Rusty was struck by how war had aged the animal. His coat was still more black than caramel. The eyebrows that looked painted-on still gave him an expressive appearance. But a hint of silver lightened his dark muzzle, and the wild look in his eyes reminded Rusty of the way veteran SEALs looked fresh off the battlefield.
Hell, he’d seen that look staring back at him in a bathroom mirror.
Draco needed this place as much as the next war-weary operator.
“It’s me, Draco. Hier,” he said, calling him over with the Dutch command Nichols had used.
The dog’s eyes turned liquid. His ears flattened. Breathing fast, he padded up the steps to bump Rusty’s outstretched hand while sniffing him. Suddenly, his whole body began to wag. Rearing up on his hind legs, he planted his forepaws on Rusty’s shoulders and knocked him off his feet, pinning him flat on the porch while licking his face in delighted recognition.
“I think he remembers you,” Sergeant Mata drawled, having made his way closer.
The urge to laugh tightened Rusty’s vocal cords. He wanted to wrestle with the dog, show him who was alpha, except he didn’t trust the dog not to bite. Better to build up the bonds of trust first.
“Los,” he said, ordering the dog to release him. Squirming out from under him, he grabbed Draco’s collar and clambered to his feet. “Better come inside,” he said to the sergeant, “if you want me to sign that paperwork.”
*
RUSTY SLIT HIS eyes open in order to read the clock beside his bed. It was two in the morning, and this was the third time he’d been wakened, this time by an unidentifiable noise.
At twenty-one hundred, he’d put Draco in the barn for the night, but the dog hadn’t stayed there. Incessant barking had seen him transferred almost immediately to the house. Rusty had shut him up in the bathroom downstairs, where barking had turned into howling.
He’d then brought the dog upstairs and put him inside his closet. Draco had fallen silent, seemingly content, and Rusty had crawled back into bed, shoved wax earplugs into his ears, and gone back to sleep.
But this noise that he’d awakened to wasn’t one he readily recognized. Prying a plug out of one ear, he came wide awake as it occurred to him it was a gnawing sound. Oh, shit, the dog was eating his way out of the closet.
“No!” Vaulting out of bed, Rusty threw open the closet door, startling the dog who shrank back into the far corner. Groping for the nearest light switch, Rusty flinched against the glare even as he leaned into the large closet to assess the damage.
Sure enough, the dog had done his damnedest to get out of his makeshift quarters. Part of the trim and a large segment of the drywall lay in soggy pieces on the closet floor. And here Rusty had thought Draco was happy simply to be close to him.
A vision of the dog nestled next to Nichols’ legs came to him belatedly. Draco was used to sleeping in the same bed with his handler, his chin resting on Nichols’ thigh.
Meeting the glassy gaze of the frightened canine, Rusty cursed himself.
“My fault, boy,” he admitted. Sinking into a crouch, he held out a hand.
“Draco, hier. You’re not in trouble. I forgot what you were used to, that’s all. It’s been a long time since I’ve been played in the sandbox,” he added, remembering Afghanistan by the name service people used for it. “Don’t like to think about it, actually.”
The dog sniffed his hand, mistrustful at first but responsive to his conversational tone.
“Bet you didn’t like the sandbox either. Or maybe you did—lots to do there, huh? Bet you miss Nichols.” Pain pegged Rusty’s chest as the dog’s ears swiveled forward. “You still recognize his name,” he realized.
Sorrow swamped him abruptly, and he rolled onto one hip to stroke the soft plane between Draco’s ears. The dog submitted, lowering his head to the floor. Then he elbow-crawled forward to put his chin on Rusty’s knee.
Touched by the gesture of trust, Rusty let himself remember as he caressed the dog from his head to his haunches. He pictured Nichols in the mess tent piling bacon and sausage on top of his eggs. Nichols taking point with Draco. He’d walked way ahead of them, putting himself and the dog between the Navy SEALs and certain death. Rusty remembered Nichols writing long letters to his wife, showing him pictures of his two girls.
And now the man was dead. His wife left without a husband. Those girls were growing up without a father. And Draco’s world had imploded.
A too-familiar pain knifed Rusty’s heart. He found himself picturing Maya Schultz, whose heart-shaped face was still fresh in his mind from the other day. Ten years had passed since her husband’s death, and she still hadn’t gotten over it. He could tell by the way she looked at him, like she couldn’t believe he’d let her husband die.
The fact that she blamed him—not in an active way, but subconsciously—that hurt.
If she only knew how desperately he had fought—how they’d all fought to stay alive. If she only knew how many times he’d wished he could have died in someone’s stead—anyone’s.
The sensation of a tear sliding down his cheek brought him back to the present. Looking down, he found Draco asleep with his chin on Rusty’s knee. Suddenly he knew what the dog needed. Hell, maybe he needed it, too. He shifted, and Draco’s eyes slowly opened.
“Come on, buddy. Let’s get in bed.” He pushed to
his feet and snapped off the light.
Ignoring his slight abhorrence at the thought of having a dog in his bed—all that hair—, he slipped back under the covers and patted the space beside him. “Hier.”
The dog bounded onto the bed next to him, turned in a circle three times, and collapsed onto the comforter.
Rusty found his fingers sifting through the dog’s soft fur. His eyes closed. The breath flowed in and out of his lungs like waves, rolling and retreating.
He would rather have a woman in his bed than a dog. And not just any woman.
A vision of Maya Schultz curling up next to him sent a shaft of longing through him.
What would she think about sharing her bed with a man and a dog? Considering she blamed the man for her husband’s death, the question was probably a moot one. He’d never find out.
He could dream, though, couldn’t he?
Chapter Three
‡
MAYA STARED AT the array of wall plaster in Home Depot, wondering if any one brand was better than the others. She hadn’t owned a house since she sold the one Ian and she had bought as newlyweds. She had rented ever since, so that things like broken hot water heaters and burst pipes were her landlord’s problem and not hers. But telling her latest landlord about the dent in the wall was out of the question. She would fix it herself and paint over the fresh plaster and none would be the wiser. But which brand to choose?
If only Ian were still here.
Grabbing the tub that looked the most familiar, she glanced behind her at the distinct sound of panting. The sight of a dog standing two feet away staring at her rocked her back on her heels. On the other end of his leash stood Rusty Kuzinsky, whose dark gaze hit her like a mainlined methamphetamine.
Oh, my God. Had she conjured him by thinking of him so much?
“Hello,” he said. He sent her a suggestion of a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look ten years younger. And so damn attractive that her insides seemed to melt.
Never Forget: A Novella in the Echo Platoon Series Page 2