Betina Krahn - Soldier's Rescue

“I don’t have all of the equipment I need here.” She looked at the officer, who was half in, half out of the cruiser, restraining the unhappy shepherd. He seemed to have the big, rangy dog in hand, and the fleeting thought occurred to her that having things under control was probably his norm. At that moment, she envied him. “She’ll have to go to my office,” she said, popping off the gloves. “I hate to ask, but can you drive her over there? She shouldn’t be moved more than necessary.”

“Just tell me how to get there,” he said, his voice full of certainty.

Kate inhaled sharply as if she’d been holding her breath.

“Why don’t you ride with the dog?” Gran said as Kate emerged from the back seat. “I’ll bring your Jeep over later, and Isabelle can pick me up.”

It sounded reasonable. She nodded and handed her keys to Gran. As she slid back into the rear seat, she was aware of the officer releasing the shepherd into the front seat with a warning and then closing the rear door. The shepherd climbed over the hardware in the front—computer, radio, scanner, racked gun—not the least bit intimidated. He turned and put paws on the seat back to watch what was happening behind him. The officer slid behind the steering wheel and managed to click his seat belt and crank the wheel with the palm of his hand at the same time.

“You’ll want to hang on,” he called over his shoulder.

She scrambled for room beside the injured dog and found a seat belt just as they took off, gravel flying. She jerked against the restraint as the cruiser’s tires grabbed the asphalt of the county road.

Lights and sirens for an injured dog; this was a first for her. She glanced up at the officer in the front seat and caught a few more details: strong jaw with a hint of a scar beneath a Florida tan. Dark hair cut high and tight—military, for sure. Judging by his erect bearing and contained physicality, he could handle himself—probably had handled himself.

She gave directions, then stroked her patient and murmured quiet reassurances. When she looked up, wary eyes in a brooding shepherd face were watching her. Distrust. She’d seen that look a thousand times in animals and sensed that she’d need the officer’s help at the end of this mad dash. Turning back to her patient, she carried in her mind’s eye the image of the shepherd anxiously nosing her patient’s head.

“Thanks for doing this, Officer...”

“Trooper. Stanton. Nick Stanton.”

“Kate Everly. DVM.”

“I gathered.” He seemed to glance at her in the rearview mirror; it was hard to tell where he was looking behind those shades. “Lucky you were there.”

“My grandmother is on the shelter’s board. She ropes me into helping regularly.”

He nodded and said nothing more.

Clearly a man of few words.

CHAPTER TWO

“SO, THIS IS YOURS,” Trooper Stanton said, killing the siren as they pulled into the parking lot outside the darkened Lakeview Animal Clinic. The building was a stucco-covered one-story with a dozen indoor runs, two surgeries and half a dozen exam rooms; perfect for a two-vet operation.

“And the bank’s,” she said as she pointed to the drive at the side. “Around the back—we can take her straight into the surgery.”

The minute the cruiser stopped, she jumped out and headed for the steel security door to punch in the lock code. Then she stepped inside and turn off the alarm. Seconds later, the trooper lifted the injured golden from the cruiser and carried her to the rear entrance. Kate went ahead of them, turning on lights and making sure one of the surgery tables was clear.

“We’ll start a line first—get some fluids going in her—then we’ll do an X-ray or two.” She grabbed clippers, a bag of saline and an IV needle.

He settled the golden gently on the table and watched as Kate made a more thorough examination, then shaved one of the golden’s front legs.

“I got this.” He grabbed the needle pack as she reached for it, and he ripped it open. “I don’t know anything about X-rays, though. That’s your department.”

But he did know about starting IVs in dogs? She was halfway around the table to protest when a growl startled her. The shepherd braced himself in a warning stance near the table, his nose up and twitching as he read the surgery’s mix of urgency, animal scents and medicinal smells.

“Can it, tough guy.” The trooper straightened as the dog ignored him. He barked an order to sit. When the dog defied that order, he made a fist and did a biceps curl, snapping the fist to his shoulder. After a tense moment, the dog lowered its rear to the floor. He stared at the dog for a minute, seeming a little surprised it had worked, then went back to starting the IV.

His take-charge attitude in her surgery rankled, but something stopped her from setting him straight. Maybe it was the knowledgeable way his fingers swabbed the shaved area, felt for a vein and carefully inserted the needle. Maybe it was the shepherd’s obedience. Still, she didn’t move until the line was established and he raised the bag, looking for a place to hang it. In the midst of starting the IV, he’d taken off his sunglasses; they were hanging from a shirt pocket.

“Where did you learn to do that?” she asked. His eyes suited his face—big and bold—an arresting light hazel color.

“Iraq.” When she crossed her arms and waited for more, he looked less comfortable. “We had dogs...and...sometimes they got dehydrated.”

“Interesting,” she said after a moment, sensing there was a lot of story behind that terse description. His rescue of these dogs made sense in light of his military experience. Soldiers in combat got close to their canine comrades, and that experience often carried over to civilian life.

Still, this dog was a stray, and whatever time and effort she expended would never show a positive on the practice’s balance sheets. The odds of a favorable outcome were probably just south of fifty-fifty, but she had to do whatever she could to treat the dog.

Annoyed—with him or her own soft-hearted impulses?—she pulled over a pole for the IV and went for the portable X-ray.

Thankfully, this didn’t take much time. Because it was just as she feared: the X-rays showed a hairline in the pelvis and a major compound fracture in the leg. She called her partner, Jess, to come in to help, but the call went straight to voice mail. It was Jess’s night off, and she was probably out with her man-of-the-month.

“I’m afraid if we wait until tomorrow to do the surgery she’ll be in even worse shape,” she said, mostly to herself, while running a hand gently over the golden’s head.

“I can help,” Trooper Stanton said over his shoulder as he washed his hands in the scrub sink. When he turned and propped his hands on his service belt, spreading his elbows enough that his chest strained his shirt. She frowned, wishing he wouldn’t do that and that she wasn’t drawn to watch him do it. Her frown deepened.

“You ever helped with a surgery?”

“Field stuff. Stitching sometimes. Mostly wrap and run.” He cocked his head, watching her decide. “I’m not a fainter.”

“I would guess not,” she said under her breath. Decision made, she turned to the shelves along the far wall to pull surgical supplies. Halfway there, she stopped dead, confronted by a shepherd braced for action. “Um, we may have a problem here.”

Trooper Stanton scowled and then ordered the shepherd to the table where his injured companion lay. The dog approached cautiously, rose with one paw against the table and sniffed his friend.

“She’s going be okay, tough guy, but you have to give the doc here room to work.” He strode to a nearby door, flipped on a light inside the exam room, then shoved the shepherd in. The instant the door closed between them, there were thumps against the door and barks of protest. Stanton drew a deep breath. “It’s for the best.”