Under Fire (Elite Force #3)(10)
Author: Catherine Mann

He threw his truck into park and turned off the headlights, past ready to pick up his dog Harley from the sitter and kick back with a beer at home. In fact, his whole life sucked these days, tough to swallow when he’d had the world by the tail for most of his life. But he wasn’t at The Citadel military college these days or even in his job as a security cop in the air force. Since his return from Afghanistan, he was… in limbo.

And he was late picking up his dog, Harley.

He jumped out of the truck, his gym shoes hitting the sandy driveway outside the doggy day care.

Doggy frickin’ day care, for Christ’s sake.

Shaking his head, he scrubbed a hand over his shaggy hair, longer than normal these days. But then, he was on extended medical leave until they decided if he was a permanent or temporary basket case. Which meant he had to keep his appointments with the base shrink if he wanted to stand any chance at getting his life back.

Brandon slammed his door, triggering a distant ripple of barks. He flinched. His pulse ramped. He tipped back his head and stared at the crescent moon, dragging in calming breaths to ease the tightness in his chest. Sharp noises still did that to him. But at least he wasn’t face down in the dirt anymore.

Thanks to his dog. And speaking of his dog…

He’d never have expected to be the kind to pay for a pooch-sitter. But since Rachel’s pooch had been poisoned, he wasn’t taking any risks leaving Harley alone, and oddly enough his mutt enjoyed the pack day.

Therapy dogs weren’t allowed into all the places a service dog could go. And as much as he hated to be away from his new pet, he’d known he would need the workout in the gym after his therapy session. So he’d dropped off his Australian shepherd–beagle mix for the day at Catriona Whittier’s business. Catriona, not what he’d expected from a doggy day care… person? Caretaker?

Not that he was sure what a canine-sitter was supposed to look like. A big burly guy who herded the pack? Or a prim, stern schoolmarm type who kept the pooches in line?

Catriona was neither of those. She was… quiet. Peaceful.

There’d been a time he lived for conflict on an adrenaline-soaked field. Football or battle. He was all-in, gung ho, and kicking ass. He’d had no idea how valuable peace could be until he lost it altogether.

He needed to quit staring at the moon and get his dog.

Brandon jogged up the driveway and around the pink stucco one-story on the beach to the fenced waterside area around back. A pricey piece of prime real estate she’d inherited from her parents. Or so Catriona had told him once.

Nearly mile-high palm trees swayed and rustled, roots holding firm against ocean winds that were mere puffs compared to hurricanes of the past. Trees only got that tall over time. Their height testified to her long line of privilege.

Yet she chose to spend her days with dogs rather than the social set.

Barking their heads off at him from inside the house, a dachshund and beagle hooked their paws on the half-open windows, the fans cranked on high.

“Yeah, guys, I know you’re there and I’m on your turf,” he said.

It was easier to talk to the dogs than to people now. He cleared the house and came to the gate, a brightly painted sign illuminated with a spotlight: Wags and Whiskers Doggy Daycare.

He walked under the honeysuckle arbor just before the gate leading to a fenced backyard with privacy wood along the sides and chain link on the end that faced the ocean. The enclosed lawn sported baby pools, tires to jump through, and buckets of drinking water. Oversized doghouses were painted to resemble the main house. Little froufrou pampered fluff balls with bows on their furry ears mingled with the larger Labs and bulldogs.

So different from his boyhood farm where the animals had roamed free… although the scent of honeysuckle was the same. Except in that wide-open childhood, he’d lost more than one family pet to a roadside accident or a neighbor’s buckshot.

The thought of something happening to Harley gripped him. And then, bam. There came that cold sweat again. His feet stumbled on… nothing. They just tangled up.

“Harley?” he shouted, grabbing the fence for balance, searching the yard as motion sensors clicked floodlights on.

Catriona stepped from behind one of the doghouses. “Hey, Brandon, Harley’s inside, zonked out from playing all afternoon. Come with me and I’ll show you her favorite napping spot.”

Catriona trailed her fingers down a wire fence around a dry baby pool with a Dalmatian curled up with her litter of puppies. She wound her way through the pack of dogs, lightly touching each on the head as she passed, fearless, at peace. This calm, collected woman didn’t know the meaning of a cold sweat.

As always, his eyes were drawn to her, holding.

She had ginger hair, whispery fine and swept back with a headband. She always wore jean capris with a loose T-shirt, dark colored. Most likely so the dog fur and muddy pawprints didn’t show. Not that she ever appeared anything other than serene, natural. She never put on makeup but always wore a hint of sunburn on her cheeks and a light sheen of perspiration that glistened better than the high-priced face creams Stella—his last girlfriend—had kept lined up on her side of the bathroom vanity.

Before she’d dumped his ass a month after he returned all loco in the head. Not that he could blame her.

Still, he couldn’t help but think how Catriona was nothing like Stella or any type he’d hooked up with in the past. But he wasn’t the same man now that he’d been before leaving for Afghanistan. A moot point, really, since he wouldn’t be hooking up with Catriona or any woman. He had nothing to offer—in or out of bed. These days, he felt next to nothing, like someone had short-circuited his mainframe.

Given how raw he was today after the therapy session from hell, it would be best for all if he just hauled out of here. “No need to stop what you’re doing. I’ll get Harley and leave a check on the kitchen counter.”

He was a f**king coward.

“Really, it’s okay. I actually took some photos of the dogs, and there are some great shots of Harley.”

Shots.

Crap.

The word shot alone turned his cold sweat downright icy. “Pictures?”

He forced himself to act normal. To pretend.

“A video, too.” A smile lit her pretty hazel eyes. “That dog of yours is a real ham.”

“Thanks. But I should go. Long day”—with the shrink, then pounding a punching bag, trying like hell to get back to work again. To get his military career back on track.