A Hero and His Dog
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Carrie Nichols
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20
Chapter One
Mitch Sawicki’s foot itched. Not a problem—if he could scratch it. But he’d left that foot, along with the lower half of the same leg, behind in the Afghan desert. The surgeon had referred to his surgery as a transtibial amputation, which meant the leg below the knee was removed. They’d assured him that there’d be less atrophy of his muscles and retaining his knee would provide greater balance and stability. He sighed because none of that reassuring news provided relief from the current itchiness as he stood on this farmhouse porch.
Above or below the knee didn’t alter the bottom line. His career working with his canine partner as a combat engineer with the 75th Ranger Regiment was over, changing forever the person he used to be. He was still in the process of figuring out who this new Mitch was.
He reached for the rubber band he liked to wear around his wrist for when these phantom sensations occurred before remembering he’d left it in the cupholder back in his truck. It wasn’t worth going back to get it. Snapping the band was painful, but it served to redirect his brain. He preferred the fleeting sting of the band to the nausea and drowsiness caused by the Gabapentin the doctors had prescribed to alter the neurotransmitters in his brain. Hoping to redirect the impulses and relieve the annoying itch without medical intervention, he pinched and massaged his thigh.
These phantom sensations, caused by the nerves left intact, were part of his new reality, just one of the things he’d been learning to live with this past year. Which meant he coped and kept quiet because people tended to give him disbelieving looks if he talked about it. Why was it so hard for others to believe he could feel sensations in the missing limb other than pain?
His prosthetic wasn’t visible beneath the drab olive fatigue pants he wore today, so the person answering the door wouldn’t be any the wiser. Unless they had X-ray vision. He snort-laughed at that absurd thought and pressed the doorbell.
Concentrate on the mission, Sawicki.
He tensed at the sound of running footsteps from inside the home. Running? The blue-painted wooden door swung open to reveal... Nothing?
Movement had Mitch redirecting his gaze downward. A tiny, waif-like girl, no more than three or four years old, stood smiling up at him. Dressed in a flowing gown of some sort of glittery pink material and a crown of crushed aluminum foil, she looked as though she’d stepped off the pages of one of those Little Golden Books. On her feet were shiny red rubber boots. Make that a fractured fairy tale.
“Hi, I’m Phoebe,” the girl chirped, her dark eyes large in her round, cherubic face.
Flummoxed, he stared mutely at her. He’d been psyching himself for this encounter for the past eight hundred miles, determined to get results, make demands if necessary. All done as politely as possible of course, but nonetheless he’d stand firm even if one of the feet he’d be standing on was a product of modern medical science. Failure was not an option. If the dog he saw on that video was indeed his former partner, he was getting Sarge back.
In the scenario in his head, the door would be opened by an adult, someone he could reason with. Preferably that former marine from the video so he could appeal to his sense of honor regarding a previous partner. Except Mitch hadn’t prepared himself for this. Nothing could have.
He might have first-hand combat experience but talking to this young girl was more nerve wracking than coming under fire in an urban setting. Facing someone with a rifle he could handle, but a child?
“Mister? You’re supposed to tell me your name now. Mommy says it’s called being polite,” Phoebe said in a gentle but scolding tone.
“Mitch,” he replied, his lips twitching as he contemplated the miniature Ms. Manners.
“Phoebe!” A husky but unmistakably feminine voice scolded the child from somewhere in the house but was coming closer. “What have I told you about waiting for me before you open the door?”
Mitch dragged his gaze upward to a harried-looking woman scurrying down a long hallway toward them. She draped the towel she’d been using to wipe her hands over her shoulder and stepped behind the girl. No shiny boots or tinfoil crowns, she was dressed conservatively in faded jeans and a white button-down shirt tucked into the pants. Even so, with her coffee-brown eyes, dark curly hair, and rosy cheeks she was an adult version of the child. His attention—and his imagination—was captured by a twinkle in her liquid brown eyes. That gleam made it seem as if she were harboring some intriguing secrets. Secrets he wanted to investigate. Once again, he was having trouble gathering his thoughts and forming words.
“Uh-oh, Mr. Mitch. We broke a rule.” The child peered up at him, her smile guileless even as she dragged him into her transgression.
Mitch’s resolve began to weaken. Huh. Evidently it wasn’t as absolute as he’d once thought.
“You broke the rule, Miss Phoebe,” the woman corrected and put a possessive hand on Phoebe’s bony shoulder. “We have that rule because you don’t know who could be on the other side of the door.”
The girl twisted to glance up at the woman. “But, Mommy, that’s why you hafta opens it. To see who’s there. And I did.” Turning back, the fairy princess scowled and pointed an accusing finger. “That’s Mitch. He was there when I opened it.”
He sucked in a breath, preparing to apologize for being on the other side of the door, but shut his mouth with a click of his teeth. What the heck was he doing? Making apologies was not part of the plan. He’d been prepared to go mano a mano with the person who’d taken possession of his K9 partner. Whether that person was the crusty former marine from the news video that had sent him on his journey, or some mysterious navy lieutenant who was claiming to be Sarge’s owner.
The truth was, he hadn’t prepared for a girl in red rubber boots and tinfoil crown instructing him on the finer points of polite conversation. He began to doubt his ability to complete this mission. Prior to his injuries he’d never doubted accomplishing anything he’d set out to do. He’d had his share of self-confidence, some might have gone so far as to call it arrogance, but it had served him well. It had gotten him through the final, most grueling part of Ranger school—the so-called swamp phase. So why was he letting these two throw him off his game?
He was capable of changing a failing strategy while facing intense enemy fire and yet these two had him groping for words. He needed to—
“Are you here about the job?” the woman asked.
“The job?” he parroted.
Because of the flat vowels in her speech, he assumed she was a New England native, because who the hell else would have intentionally moved to Loon Lake, a mere dot in the map of central Vermont. Just one more place where he was an outsider. Just as he’d been during his twelve years in that desert. Other than short visits to see his mom, he hadn’t spent much time in his native Chicago since graduating high school and enlisting in the army.
Suspicion and curiosity flitted across her face, furrowing her brow and creating a sexy little indentation above her nose.
What would it feel like if he used his finger—or better yet, his tongue—to explore that little groove? Damn. That thought was as disconcerting as it was reassuring. Between the extended hospitalizations for his injuries and his broken engagement, sex had taken a back seat in both his life and his thoughts. But this wasn’t the time or place for the resurgence of his once-dormant libido.
He adjusted the weight on his prosthetic. Concentrate on the mission, Sawicki.
For nearly a year he’d believed the initial information he’d been given that his canine partner hadn’t survived the attack on their convoy. Until two days ago; that’s when he’d first watched a YouTube video from a rural Vermont news station. It was a human-interest story about a three-legged dog foiling a purse snatching. Despite lacking a limb, the dog had chased down the would-be thief and wrestled the purse back.
The television crew had interviewed the middle-aged former marine who’d brought the dog to the park. But Mitch’s attention had been focused on the animal, a Belgian Tervuren, which resembled a shaggy version of a German shepherd. The caption across the bottom of the screen had identified the man as former gunnery sergeant Walt Griffin. The man had said the dog belonged to his nephew, Navy Lieutenant Bowie Griffin, adding that Sarge was a former MWD: Military Working Dog. Not only the breed but the fact he’d been a MWD had caught Mitch’s eye and had been the reason an army buddy had initially sent him the video link.
That last bit of information and watching the video over and over had clinched it for Mitch. He’d thrown clothes and toiletries into his battered duffel bag and made the thirteen-hour drive from Fayetteville, North Carolina, near Fort Bragg to Loon Lake in central Vermont.
Sarge had been more to Mitch than the dog he’d been assigned to handle. They’d worked side-by-side for six years and the love and trust between man and dog had been mutual. If alive, did Sarge think that Mitch had abandoned him?
“... You’re not what I was expecting,” the woman was saying.
Her voice jerked him back to the present and his mission.
“Honestly, you’re not what I expected either.” The words had left his mouth before his brain could censor them. Great. What was he, twelve, and engaging in a game of I-know-you-are-but-what-am-I?
He opened his mouth, but before he could apologize for his unfortunate retort, she was speaking again.
“I apologize, that was rude. But I posted the ad on the bulletin board at the high school library. So, frankly, I was expecting a teenager looking to earn some extra cash over the summer not...not um...you.” Color rose in her face and she slapped a hand over her mouth as if trying to prevent more from rushing forth.
Did he look as though he needed to compete with high schoolers for jobs? Sure, he’d lost muscle mass, but lying in a hospital for months on end tended to do that do a guy. He’d always been sinewy instead of brawny. But now he was plain old lanky, his belt a necessary accessory.
The most accurate description of what he was today was former. A former Ranger thanks to last month’s honorable discharge. His decision to leave the military, not theirs. A former fiancée, thanks to Cynthie’s inability to handle his injuries and his new reality. Her decision that time, but, despite it being ego deflating, he’d been secretly relieved and hadn’t done anything to get her to change her mind.
The biggest and most regrettable former he laid claim to was as Sarge’s partner. He’d been told his K9 partner hadn’t survived the blast that had cost him his leg. Mitch had believed what he’d been told and hadn’t bothered to verify the information or track down the dog’s whereabouts...until now. Shame on him. Not that there would have been a lot he could have done from his hospital bed. Except recover quicker, worked harder at PT to make it back to Sarge. The army might have been the owner of record, but Mitch had always felt Sarge was his and he would’ve fought tooth and nail to see that Sarge came to him once they were both released from military duty.
That was then and this was now. A little late, but he was doing something about it now. If this was his Sarge, the dog needed him as much as he needed the dog. How could these people know what it was like to lose a limb?
Her last comment finally penetrated through his jumble of thoughts. “You posted a help wanted ad on a bulletin board?”
What the hell, Sawicki? Never mind the job. That’s not why you’re here. The primary object of this mission was getting information about the dog. To find out if this Belgian Tervuren was his old partner. If Sarge had survived, Mitch wouldn’t rest until the dog was back where he belonged. And that was with him. He had nothing against this unknown Lieutenant Griffin, but that guy hadn’t worked side by side, in some of the most grueling conditions, with Sarge for over six years.
“Didn’t I just say that’s what I did?” she asked.
Her scowl brought back that tempting furrow in her brow. Never before had a woman’s annoyance with him garnered a sexual reaction. Get a grip, he cautioned himself.
“Uh-oh. Mommy, why is you mad at Mr. Mitch?”
The woman gave the child’s shoulder a small squeeze. “Phoebe, why don’t you go pick up your coloring book and crayons and put them away?”
Phoebe crossed her arms over her chest. “But I want to know why Mr. Mitch made you mad.”
“He didn’t make me mad, sweetie.” The woman bared her teeth in what was probably supposed to be a smile, as if that would put some weight behind her words.
Phoebe tilted her head and pointed. “Then why does you got your mad face on?”
Mitch laughed, just a brief exhale of air, but he tried to cover it up by clearing his throat. With both mother and daughter now staring at him, he squared his shoulders. “Maybe we should start over. I’m Mitch Sawicki and I’m looking for Lieutenant Bowie Griffin.”
The woman shook her head. “He’s not here. If you’d like to leave your contact information, I can have him get in touch.”
Damn. Why hadn’t he thought this through? He’d been so driven to get to Sarge that he hadn’t given logistics a second thought. What was wrong with his thought process? Normally, he’d never go into a situation without a contingency plan and yet, here he was, standing before strangers with no back-up plan. Had he expected these people to hand over the dog on his say so?
He pushed the doubts aside because he hadn’t come all this way to be thwarted now. Besides, relating to a fellow military man had to be easier than dealing with these two. Right? “When are you expecting him? Maybe I can—”
“Mr. Mitch?” Phoebe tugged on his pant leg. “Sometimes it takes a long time for Uncle Bo to come home when he’s off saving the world.”
Puzzled by her words, he glanced down and frowned. “Saving the world?”
She’d called Lieutenant Griffin Uncle Bo. That little bit of information didn’t escape his notice. Did this mean the woman wasn’t Mrs. Bowie Griffin and he wasn’t going to be condemned for his lascivious thoughts? Or was uncle a child’s euphemism for her mother’s boyfriend? Those thoughts were best left alone for now. It was something he’d deal with later. If at all.
The girl’s head bobbed up and down. “Uh-huh. Saving the world is his job. He—”
“Phoebe,” the woman said with a clear note of warning in her tone.
“Oops. I’m not a’spose to talk about that. It’s another rule.” Phoebe dragged out the last word, giving it an extra syllable. She sniffed and her shoulders dropped as if unable to support the weight of her burden.
“Ouch. Sometimes rules can be hard to keep track of, huh?” Mitch said, hoping to diffuse the situation. Tears—no matter the age of the woman in question—had the power to unman him.
Damn, what was wrong with him? Had he totally abandoned his purpose? No, but those solemn eyes gazing up at him had twisted something in his chest. He still hadn’t asked about Sarge. How had these two managed to throw him into such chaos?
“I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name,” he said to the woman, figuring he’d get this whole episode back onto an even keel and find out where he could locate Sarge. One look at this dog’s ear tattoo and he’d have his answer.
“My mommy is Sleeping Beauty,” the pint-sized princess announced.
“Excuse me?” Mitch looked from Phoebe to her mother, whose cheeks had turned a deeper shade of pink. Yes, the blush was intriguing, but it was that oh so slight sexy-as-hell overbite that had his insides twisting into knots. How did she and the child fit into this scenario and what was Sarge to them?
“She means my name is Aurora,” she explained and shot Phoebe a look that promised retribution.
“Aurora?” Why was he reduced to repeating the last thing she said? He couldn’t remember ever feeling so tongue-tied around an attractive woman. Perhaps his smooth moves had come easier when both the legs he was standing on were his own.
“Yes, but everyone just calls me Rory.”
“Rory,” he said, testing it out. He liked it, liked the way it felt on his lips. “But I don’t understand—”
“She’s Princess Aurora,” Phoebe said as if that explained everything and gave her mother a look of pure adoration.
“Princess Aurora?” Mitch arched an eyebrow as he studied the woman in front of him. Exactly what sort of rabbit hole had he fallen through?
“Despite Phoebe’s claim, it’s just Aurora.” The woman sighed. “In case you missed the clues, my daughter is obsessed with fairy tales.”
“I noticed.” Mitch winked at the giggling little girl. “You may have to remind me about the one with Princess Phoebe and her magical red boots.”
“Mommy, Mr. Mitch thinks I’m a princess and that my new boots are magic,” Phoebe said in an awed stage whisper.
Hoping to ease the sudden tightness, Mitch rubbed his chest. Not having spent any time around kids, he was clueless, but it looked like he was the one who’d been missing out all this time.
Rory Walsh could only nod at Phoebe’s comment. She was too busy trying to gulp down a breath. Mitch’s wink had been directed at Phoebe, but it had landed on her and done something diabolical to her lungs. But even before that devastating wink, she’d been intrigued by his pale green eyes, so striking against the olive tone of his skin. He had full lips and, as much as she tried not to, she couldn’t help but wonder how that mouth would feel against hers.
Despite the unkempt hair that was months past needing to be trimmed, she’d pegged Mitch as military, either current or former. She hadn’t come to that conclusion just because he wore fatigues. Anyone could buy those army-green pants and T-shirts at a surplus store or off the internet. She’d been raised by a former marine turned sheriff’s deputy, plus her brother was active-duty navy. So, yeah, she recognized that stance...and that innate attitude.
“So, you’re like a princess in disguise?” Mitch asked, quirking an eyebrow at her.
Rory worked to reconnect with the conversation. Sighing, she silently cursed her blabbermouth daughter. “That was her real name.”
Mitch frowned. “Whose real name?”
“Sleeping Beauty,” mother and daughter said at the same time.
The poor guy looked totally confused, which somehow added to his appeal. The best thing she could do was send him on his way before she did something stupid like invite him in. Or worse, check to see how those lips felt against hers. When had she gotten so bold? She hadn’t even dated since the divorce, let alone engage in any torrid affairs. So why was she suddenly having these surprising, and disturbing, thoughts? And in front of her daughter, no less.
“As I said, if you’d like to leave a number or a message, I’ll pass it along to my brother,” she said in as brusque a tone as she could manage.
If she hadn’t been looking closely, she might have missed the expression of relief on his face when she’d said Bowie was her brother. Interesting.
No. Not interesting. Not nothing. Oh great, now she was bending grammar like Phoebe.
She wrapped her fingers around the edge of the door as if in preparation to shut it. Maybe he’d take the hint and leave and she wouldn’t have to deal with these rogue thoughts about him.
“What about the job?”
