Baby, Hold On - By Stephanie Bond Page 0,14

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