with deployments and all. It’s Ben I worry about. I have to work a lot and don’t get to spend the kind of time with him I’d like.”
“Understandable.” She hooked her thumbs in her pockets. “But then, every parent I’ve ever talked to says the same thing. Time is the one thing there never seems to be enough of when it comes to kids.” She searched his now guarded expression. “If it helps—from an outsider’s point of view—Ben seems to worship you. He talks about you a lot and is very proud of how you help people and dogs.” Back on safer ground now, she smiled. “Fair warning—he wants a dog pretty badly.”
“Yeah, I got that. Seeing him with the golden at your office, then with the puppies—it wasn’t hard to figure out that a dog request is probably in the works.”
“When we were in the puppy room, he said he’d be happy with an older dog. And if I could offer a little advice, that might be a good option for a boy as young as Ben. But all kids want a puppy. The cute factor is overwhelming. I mean—” she remembered his expression in the puppy room too late “—who doesn’t love puppies?”
He straightened and focused on her in a way that made her feel like a specimen under glass. Wow. A shiver ran down her spine at the intensity of his stare. It’s personal, that look said.
She stuttered mentally. More personal than the disintegration of his relationship with the woman who gave birth to his child?
A shout of alarm from one of the volunteers yanked her attention to the end of the long gravel driveway, where two dark lumps lay on the pale crushed shell, one still and the other struggling to move. In the distance, hidden by the trees lining the road, an engine revved and tires squealed. Her nerves snapped taut. Someone had dropped off dogs.
She was in motion before she had a chance to think about it. She ran with two other volunteers to see what had been dropped on their doorstep. By the time she arrived, one of the volunteers was on his knees beside a dog that was scarred and bloodied beyond belief. Its head and ears were so swollen it was hard to identify the breed. The other dog, an American Staffordshire terrier—a male “pittie” from the looks of him—struggled to rise, clearly weakened and dazed from loss of blood. There were open, bleeding wounds all over its blocky head and muscular shoulders.
Instinct told her the motionless dog was probably beyond help, so she focused on the Staffordshire thrashing on the stone, trying to make it to his feet. She put both hands on the dog’s chest and ribs to try to get a sense of his heartbeat while murmuring reassurances, trying to calm him. It felt like his heart was going to jump out of his chest; he was frantic to escape whatever torment he expected at the hands of humans.
“We need to get him inside so I can work on him,” she said to the people gathered around. A familiar pair of arms appeared with a blanket to cover the dog and lift it.
“Ben, go to the car and stay there.” Nick’s voice was strained as he carried the dog down the long drive.
“But, Dad, the dogs are hurt and I can—”
“Go!” Nick thundered. “Now!”
Kate was aware of the boy heading away from the group, shoulders rounded and feet dragging. She looked up at Nick with a question she didn’t get to ask.
“I don’t want him seeing this,” Nick said roughly. “He’s too young. It’ll give him nightmares.”
Kate nodded and ran ahead to make sure the exam table was clear and to prepare the necessary supplies. When she looked up, Isabelle and three other volunteers were crowding the doorway behind Nick, who settled the dog on the table with a grim expression.
“He’s in shock. We have to find out where all that blood is coming from.” It was a short-haired dog, but she gave his front leg a pass with the clippers anyway and then thrust the coil of tubing and needle pack at Nick. “Get this going while I check out his wounds.” She sensed his hesitation and looked up. His face was taut and his jaw was set, but after a moment he went to work establishing the IV, and her gaze moved on to one of the older volunteers, Harry Mueller, who was just pushing into the room. Harry had been the one trying to help the other dog. “What happened?”
Harry wiped his face on his sleeve and shook his head. “Gone.”
“Damn.” She froze for a second and then drew a sharp breath. “Well, let’s see what we can do about saving this one.”
For the next several minutes she worked intently, cleaning away blood and investigating cuts—some jagged rips and others clean slashes. There were fresh scars and lumps that looked like old swelling in several places, including on the dog’s head. Part of one ear had been ripped off recently and was only half-healed. The certainty settled in her gut like a stone. “These are fighting injuries.”
“Yeah,” Nick said, looking around for a place to hang the IV bag, but, finding none, simply held it himself. “From the looks of him, this guy has seen plenty of action. We’ve heard rumors that they’re back in this area. The dogfighting rings.”
“But why would they dump their injured off on us?” Isabelle asked from behind Nick. She folded her arms tightly across her chest as she edged around the others to see the damage for herself. “Don’t they usually just bury the evidence somewhere out of the way and move on?”
No one said anything for a minute, then Kate looked up at the ceiling to clear her vision, then back down at the wound she was stitching. “Maybe somebody had an attack of conscience.”
She quit counting knots after a while; it seemed like she stitched forever, having to layer some in the deeper cuts. Swelling caused some of the lacerations to go together unevenly, leading her to comment that he might not be pretty afterward.
An ache had begun in the small of her back by the time she finished. The group crowded into the doorway had since moved on; only Isabelle and Nick remained.
“That’s it,” she said, snapping off the gloves, tossing them into the nearby can and arching her back. “That’s all we can do. I’ll bring over some antibiotics later, and we’ll have to watch him closely for the next few days.”
“You think he’s got a chance?” Isabelle asked.
“A slim one.” Kate frowned as she studied her handiwork, then turned to the sink to scrub her hands and arms up to the elbows. Her clothes were a disaster. “Maybe twenty-five percent.”
“All that work for twenty-five percent.” Nick’s voice sounded thick.
She reached for a towel and turned to look at him. “Without that work, his odds would have been zero.” She met the storm in his gaze with a calm she had learned at her grandmother’s side. “That’s what we do...better the odds. We give it all we have and trust in the outcome.” She paused and ran a hand gently over the dog’s battered, heavily stitched head. Emotion that had been held at bay by professional duty came rushing in.
“You learn early on, working with animals, that you’re a conduit for healing, not the source,” she said quietly, as much to herself as to him. “We’re not responsible for every life we touch. That’s a burden too big to bear. After a while the weight of that kind of thinking would paralyze us. It’s also a recognition that we’re part of the natural processes of life. We help wherever we can, whenever we can, always knowing that the outcome may be out of our hands.”
Tears pricked her eyes, and she grabbed her stethoscope to busy herself listening to the dog’s heart: slow, but still beating.
Moments later, Gran entered with an anxious expression, towing a young boy behind her.
“Ben and I were wondering what’s happening.”
Nick wheeled and found Ben moving toward the table where the injured dog lay—swollen, stitched and inert—in a mass of bloody cloths.
“Did he die, too?” Ben asked, his eyes wide.
“What the hell?” Nick ground out before checking himself and bending