Never Forget: A Novella in the Echo Platoon Series (3 page)

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.”

*

R
USTY 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

‡

M
AYA 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.

“Hi.” Her heart started to bounce against her breastbone. Could he tell?

“Need some help?” He glanced at the tub of putty in her hands and then back into her eyes.

“Oh. Um.” And now she was stammering. “Actually, I think I’m okay.”

The dog stretched out his neck in an attempt to sniff at her shorts.

“
Zit,
” Rusty said, and the dog immediately sat.

Maya blinked and looked up, wondering what language that was.

“Filling in holes in your walls?” he asked, glancing back at the tub.

“A dent,” she admitted. She looked back at the dog. “Who’s this?” Maybe if they focused on the dog, her pulse would stop racing.

“My newest problem,” Rusty said on a note of irony. “Years ago, I volunteered to adopt him when he was retired from service.”

She regarded the dog with fresh eyes. “A military dog. That explains why he’s so well-behaved.”

He issued a laugh that made her think of sandpaper. “He’s not that well behaved,” he assured her.

“No?”

“No.” His ruddy lips twitched toward a smile that made her wonder what kissing him would feel like.

“I guess he could be,” he qualified. “But like any warrior just off the field of battle, he’s still pretty keyed up. I spent the whole morning running him when I have better things to do.” He glanced at the display. “In fact, I’m going to need a tub of that to patch the damage he did last night.”

“Oh dear.” She moved over so he could make his selection.

“So, what’s your boy doing with himself this summer?” he asked as he stepped alongside her.

She caught a whiff of lemon and sage and…dog.

“Oh, Curtis is just hanging around the house,” she admitted.

At her cool tone, Rusty turned his head to regard her inquiringly.

“School’s out.” She heard her add, “And he’s fourteen now—too young to work and too old for the camp he attended last year. His school friends all live pretty far away, so he’s been hanging out with some bad elements in our neighborhood.” She shrugged. “I’m just not sure what to do with him.”

Rusty’s onyx gaze plumbed her own. She wet her lips wishing she had put on makeup that morning.

“Did he put that dent in the wall?”

The quiet question turned her mouth dry. Was he psychic or something?

“With his fist?” he added.

She found she couldn’t lie with him watching her reaction. “Well, yes, but it’s the first time he’s ever done anything like that,” she assured him.

His gaze slid down and to the right. “Bet you tell yourself things would be different if your husband were still alive.”

The words stopped her heart momentarily. He had to be psychic. How could he know that?

As he looked up again, she closed her mouth, which had fallen open.

“Tell you what.” His lips firmed and his freckled forehead furrowed as he mulled over whatever it was he was about to say.

She realized she was holding her breath.

“What if I gave your son a job?”

Her thoughts went to the big old house he’d renovated as a retreat for active-duty SEALs. “What kind of job?” It was probably her fault, but her son was as unskilled at fixing things as she was.

He gestured to the dog, which had stood up restlessly, apparently recalled he was supposed to be sitting, and sat down again. “Playing with my dog.”

Maya regarded the animal with reservation. Between his dark coloring and his fierce, military aspect, he looked dangerous. “Isn’t that a bit risky? Military dogs are notoriously aggressive—they have to be.”

“True,” he conceded. He thought for a second, averting his gaze. “But he’s used to being with a handler 24/7, and his was killed a short while back.”

His tone of voice also conveyed that he’d known the handler. “I’m so sorry,” she said. She regarded the orphaned dog with sympathy.

“I could use Curtis to take Draco for long walks, throw the ball, and generally hang out with him while doing stuff for me like clearing paths in the woods.”

A vision of Curtis spending time outdoors teased her imagination. “Aren’t you expecting company soon?” she asked.

Rusty just looked at her. “Bronco tell you that?”

“He told me about the retreat, yes. I think it’s a wonderful project.” She let her admiration warm her tone.

“Then you can see why I don’t have time to work with this dog.”

“Yes, but my boy’s only fourteen. And we’ve never had a dog.” Curtis had always wanted one, though.

“Let’s try it on a trial basis,” he proposed. “I can pick up Curtis in the morning before you go to work. He’ll stay with me until you come get him when your workday’s over.”

“Are you sure?” He was willing to put up with a teenager for hours on end? “You’ve never had children, have you?”

That same sandpaper laugh escaped him, causing her stomach to flip at how attractive it sounded. “I’ve had nieces and nephews and a few SEALs who were still teenagers, but no. No kids of my own.”