Baby, Hold On Page 4

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Dr. Greenwood got the results back from the tests he ran on Sheridan.”

  Panic blipped in her chest. “And?”

  “And he didn’t find anything wrong.”

  She smiled in relief. “That’s great news.”

  Except Mike looked less than thrilled about it. “Yes, but…”

  “But?” she prompted.

  “But he’s not improving.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “And I was wondering if you’d be willing to…work with him.”

  Lacey lifted an eyebrow. “Work with him?”

  He averted his gaze, then looked back. “Dr. Greenwood said you have a way with dogs, that you can get through to them.”

  She bit her lip. “I’m not sure what you’re asking me to do.”

  His expression was tight. “You once made the comment you think Sheridan is…scared.”

  She nodded.

  “Can you help him get past it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He frowned. “You don’t know? I thought you had some kind of special powers.”

  She gave a little laugh. “You’ve been misinformed.”

  “Then what do you do, exactly?”

  She shrugged. “I spend time with animals and try to respond to whatever problem they have.”

  He looked dubious. “No offense, but that’s a little vague.”

  She gave him a flat smile. “This isn’t an exact science. I just love dogs and they seem to like me back.”

  On cue, Sheridan’s tail wagged.

  After a loaded silence, Mike said, “Okay, fine,” as if everything had been decided. “Sheridan’s scheduled to go through a refresher course at the training center in ten days.”

  Lacey balked. “Hold on—I can’t guarantee Sheridan will be ready for training in ten days, or ever. Every animal has its own timeline…and some problems simply can’t be fixed.”

  He pulled his hand down his face. “I’m running out of options here. Sheridan is the best search and rescue dog I’ve ever worked with. I don’t want him to lose his certification. Can you help him or not?”

  His concern tugged on her heart, but the man was desperate, and owners with high expectations were not only the most dissatisfied, but usually the worst to work with. She looked down at Sheridan, who stared up at her with sad, hopeful eyes, his mouth full of the pink bone she’d made with her own hands. She thought of all the people the dog had saved in his career…and the people he could save in the future if he were well again.

  Lacey lifted her eyes to Mike, who stood with his hands on his hips, his dark gaze guarded. “If we do this,” she said, “you have to agree to give me carte blanche where Sheridan is concerned.”

  His expression cleared. “Okay.”

  “That goes for you, too. You’ll have to do what I say when it comes to handling Sheridan.”

  Mike looked as if a bad taste had backed up in his mouth, but he gave a curt nod.

  “I’ll need to spend as much time with him as possible between my appointments. He can stay with me here—”

  “No,” Mike cut in. “I’m renting a two-bedroom cabin. You can come and stay there with us.”

  Lacey drew in a sharp breath and hiccuped. Stay under the same roof? With him?

  “Please,” he added in a rusty voice that told her he didn’t often use the word. “Time is of the essence here.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I’ll pay you, of course,” he said, then named a figure that stalled her tongue.

  With that kind of money, she could buy two hydraulic grooming tables. And she could get Betsy to pick up the slack between appointments. But still… “Like I said, I can’t make any guarantees.”

  “Fair enough. How soon can we get started?”

  She blinked. “Well, I’d need to pack a bag—”

  “We’ll wait for you here.”

  Lacey glanced over man and dog, waiting expectantly. She wasn’t sure which one looked more desperate. For sure, they were a decidedly sad pair. Could she help them? She had her doubts, but she had to try.

  “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  Chapter Seven

  Mike had no reason to feel nervous as he opened the door to the cabin he’d rented. It wasn’t as if he was welcoming Lacey into his apartment near the Army base in Columbus. Still, just knowing she’d be in close proximity for the next several days made it a little harder to insert the key into the lock.

  Because he was still worried about how this slip of a woman might affect Sheridan, of course, not how she might affect him.

  When the heavy wooden door swung wide, he realized ruefully that his bachelor pad in Columbus wasn’t nearly as inviting as this place. Built from sturdy logs and recycled building materials, the cabin consisted of one large room in the center that boasted a cozy kitchen against the back wall, a comfortable living room on the left, a dining room on the right, with doors on either side of the great room leading to a separate bedroom and bathroom.

  “I always wondered what the inside of these cabins looked like,” Lacey said, gazing around. “It’s nice.”

  “Sorry for the mess.” He set down her suitcase and walked forward to slide a pizza box from the breakfast bar into the trash.

  “It’s fine. Where would you like me?”

  He took in her slight figure swallowed by the voluminous dress and recalled the sensation of having her body snug against his on the ladder. Unbidden, his sex stirred. “Uh…I’ll show you.”

  He retraced his steps and reached for her suitcase at the same time she did. His hand brushed hers and a tingling sensation shot up his arm. She pulled her hand from beneath his and their gazes locked for a few seconds. The thought slid into his mind that maybe this woman did have some kind of magical power…but that was ridiculous.

  Mike straightened. “This way,” he said abruptly, and strode to the empty bedroom on the left. When he walked into the room and switched on the light, he realized the quilted bedspread on the white pine bed was rumpled with the imprint of his big body. He set her small suitcase on a low chest at the foot of the bed, then leaned over to straighten the cover.

  “I came in here a couple of times when Sheridan kept me up, but the sheets are clean.”

  She glanced around the room, decorated in muted greens and blues, and smiled her approval, then brought her attention back to him. “So Sheridan’s sleep patterns have changed?”

  “Yeah,” he admitted, nodding to where Sheridan had curled up on the floor. “He never used to sleep during the day much unless it was after an assignment. Now he sleeps all day, and if he sleeps at night, he has nightmares. He even wakes up howling sometimes.”

  She appeared to to file away the information. “Has anything else changed? His eating habits? Has he become destructive? Has he had any accidents inside?”

  He answered her rapid-fire questions as best he could—no, yes, sometimes. She didn’t comment, just seemed to be processing his answers behind those mesmerizing green eyes of hers while nibbling on her candy-pink lower lip.

  “Well, I’ll let you get settled,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom.

  “No need,” she said, moving to the door. “Let’s get started.”

  “Okay,” he said, a little surprised by her take-charge attitude. “What’s first?”

  “I’d like to see how Sheridan behaves in different environments. Let’s take him for a walk.”

  Mike opened his mouth to say he hadn’t been able to coax Sheridan to venture outside unless nature called, but he was bumped from behind as Sheridan got to his feet and trotted to the front door.

  “I guess he understands the word walk,” Lacey said with a little laugh as she moved ahead of Mike.

  “It must sound different coming out of your pretty mouth,” Mike said, then bit down on his tongue. Where had the word pretty come from? He cleared his throat and hoped like hell she hadn’t heard.

  *

  Pretty
? Lacey kept walking, pretending she hadn’t heard. Mike Nichols didn’t think her mouth was pretty…did he? She glanced up to his stony expression and decided she must’ve misunderstood him. She gave herself a mental shake.

  “Will you keep him on a leash for now?” she asked Mike.

  “I usually do, although lately it hasn’t been an issue—he doesn’t seem to want to leave my side. In fact, he doesn’t like being off his leash.”

  Lacey had walked the paths along Clover Ridge many times, so she chose one that took them over different types of terrain and close to the noise of earthmovers where a new house was being built. Throughout, she kept her eye on the Lab, noting when he seemed to shy away from things. And throughout, she was excessively aware of the tall, muscular man walking next to her.

  “When was Sheridan’s last mission?” she asked.

  “Missouri, three months ago, searching for survivors after the killer tornadoes there.”

  She grimaced. “I saw the awful pictures on television. I’m sure it was so much worse actually being there to witness it.”

  “It was,” he bit out. “But Sheridan was great. He found at least a dozen people trapped in the debris during the three days we were there.”

  “Was he injured?”

  “Minor stuff, typical superficial wounds.”

  “How long after the mission did his behavior begin to change?”

  “He slept hard for a few days when we returned home, also typical. But he just never seemed to recover. He’d always been an independent dog, but suddenly, he wouldn’t let me out of his sight.” He nodded toward the Lab walking a few steps ahead of them, head down. “And now he seems attached to that toy.”

  Lacey didn’t miss the accusatory tone, but let it go. “Do you remember anything different about the last mission—did he fall, for example?”

  Mike appeared to think back, then shook his head slowly. “No. Sheridan’s very sure-footed.”

  “I noticed his thick footpads when I groomed him,” she said, observing the way Sheridan moved. The dog was tentative and easily spooked. The sudden flutter of a bird had him skittering sideways and cowering next to Mike. When they approached the site of the house under construction, he flinched at the noise of the heavy machinery and balked at moving forward. Mike practically dragged him farther down the path. The tension between the man and the dog was palpable.

  “May I?” she asked, reaching for the retractable leash.

  Mike hesitated, then handed it over. She released the full length of the leash and stopped, allowing Sheridan to walk ahead slowly. When he noticed the wide space between them, he stopped and loped back toward them.

  “Sheridan, stay,” Mike said, then made a frustrated noise when the dog disobeyed.

  “Let’s see what he does on his own,” Lacey suggested.

  His mouth tightened, but he nodded his acquiescence.

  Leaving slack in the leash, she steered them down a branch of the path that took them along Timber Creek. Slowly Sheridan increased the space between them.

  “Pretty place,” Mike remarked, looking around at the lush landscape. The late-afternoon sun was beginning its slow descent over the mountain ridge to the west, spilling pink light across the valley.

  Pretty? Was it possible she hadn’t imagined what he’d said about her mouth? “I think so, too.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Almost a year.”

  “Do you have family nearby?”

  “No, they’re all in New York and Connecticut.”

  He seemed surprised. “What do they think of you living in such a remote place?”

  “They think I’m crazy for moving to the wilderness,” she said with a laugh. “They’ve never understood my connection to animals, why I’d want to make my living working with dogs.”

  He smiled. “My family is like that too.”

  “But what you do is so important.”

  “Thank you. But like you said, not everyone understands why I’d want to work with dogs.”

  “How long have you been a handler?”

  “Twelve years now.”

  “So Sheridan isn’t your first dog?”

  “No, ma’am…but he’s the best.”

  At the pride and affection in his voice, her heart swelled. She felt a sudden kinship with Mike, and a surge of appreciation for his service to the country.

  Not to mention his brawny contribution to the scenery.

  A warm flush that had nothing to do with the late-day heat made its way up her body. A warning flag raised in her mind, reminding her Mike Nichols was simply passing through. He had engaged her to help his dog, not to spin fantasies about his big, sexy physique.

  They had reached the bank of Timber Creek, a bubbling, cool stream known for its fishing. Lacey watched Sheridan to see if he would follow his retriever instincts and jump into the water.

  He crouched at the muddy edge and stuck his black nose near the water, watching tiny fish dart back and forth. The sight would have been comical—Sheridan still clutching the pink bone in his mouth—except for his obvious anxiety. He whined, but he didn’t go in.

  “Enough of this,” Mike said, then tramped through the grass and waded into the creek up to his knees. “Sheridan, come,” he commanded.

  The dog whimpered and looked back at Lacey.

  “Has he been in the water since the last mission?” she asked.

  He paused as if he had to think about it. “No.” He leaned forward. “Sheridan, come.”

  The Lab whined again and dropped to his belly in the grass.

  Mike massaged the bridge of his nose, clearly perturbed. He walked forward and Lacey was afraid he was going to try to haul the dog into the water.

  “Wait,” she called. “Don’t force him in. Will you splash him instead?”

  Mike frowned. “Splash him?”

  “Humor me.”

  He looked dubious, but he scooped up water and splashed the dog. As she suspected, Sheridan shrank away, then shook himself and ran back to her.

  Mike waded out, slinging water off his long arms. His dark eyebrows were knitted together. “Damn, he’s afraid of water? That’s not even natural.”

  Lacey could feel the dog trembling against her leg. She stroked his ears and murmured soft words of comfort until he quieted. Then she held his face until he focused on her and followed her movements. When she stood, she found Mike staring at Sheridan, his expression forlorn.

  “This is bad,” he said, shaking his head. “Maybe I should just retire him…retire myself.”

  She frowned. “Retire from handling?”

  “Maybe. I’m up for reenlistment, so I have an opportunity to change my classification.”

  “To what?”

  He shrugged. “Something else. Maybe I’ve lost my touch.”

  “I don’t think that’s what’s going on here.”

  He frowned and jammed his hands on his hips. “Care to let me in on what you do think is going on here? Or are you just going to spin some kind of mumbo jumbo about my dog being depressed?”

  Lacey’s own ire spiked. “I have a theory,” she said tersely.

  “I’m all ears,” he barked.

  Lacey realized Sheridan was looking back and forth between them, and cowering against her leg. She exhaled to keep from transferring more stress to the dog. “Was the weather bad during the last mission?” she asked in a calmer voice.

  Mike nodded. “It was stormy, a driving rain.”

  “Was there lightning?”

  “Yeah, some.”

  “I think Sheridan got an electrical jolt.”

  Mike wiped his hand over his mouth. “I didn’t notice any burns to his fur at the time, but sure, that’s possible. The last day we were there, a bad thunderstorm blew in. That evening Sheridan’s feet needed to be tended to—I thought the wounds were lacerations, but in hindsight, maybe they were burns. It would explain a lot.” He looked contrite. “It’s so simple, why didn’t I think of it?
”

  Lacey gave him a flat smile. “You’re accustomed to looking at the big picture. Besides, we don’t know that’s what happened, but it’s a place to start.”

  “You’re right,” he said, his enthusiasm spilling over as they made their way back to the cabin in the early dusk. “First thing tomorrow we can start desensitizing him to noise again…and getting him used to being wet.”

  Mike’s unconscious use of the word we did something to her stomach, and his buoyant mood was contagious, triggering another warning flag.

  This exercise was about making Sheridan whole again—not about making Mike Nichols notice her for the ten minutes he’d be passing through Sweetness.

  Chapter Eight

  Mike tried not to stare at Lacey, but he was so accustomed to eating alone, having her sitting across the dinner table enthusiastically eating chicken he’d grilled was a rather serious distraction. Her curly blond hair had mostly come loose from its ponytail holder, and floated around her face. She looked almost ethereal in the low light of the cabin. Under the table Sheridan lay curled on her small feet.

  At the moment, his dog seemed like the smartest male in the room.

  “This tastes so good,” she repeated.

  “You’re easy to please,” he said, then bit his tongue. It seemed as if everything he’d said since they’d returned from their walk came out sounding like a double entendre.

  “Actually, I’ve become very picky about corn bread since I moved here, and this is the best I’ve eaten.” She took another wedge from the pan.

  “Every soldier can make corn bread…and pancakes.”

  Her eyes lit up. “I love pancakes.”

  “I appreciate a woman with an appetite,” he said, then bit his tongue again.

  She laughed, then pushed away her empty plate and patted her mouth daintily with a napkin. “So, educate me—what is Sheridan’s specialty?”

  “He’s a tracker.”

  “Aren’t all SAR dogs trackers?”

  “Generally speaking. But ‘tracker’ is a specific term in the field. Area dogs track a scent over a large zone. Trailing dogs work in a group—they usually pick up where the area dogs leave off. And trackers follow a scent footstep by footstep.”