Baby, Hold On - By Stephanie Bond Page 0,15

pick up where the area dogs leave off. And trackers follow a scent footstep by footstep.”

“It sounds like the hardest job.”

“I wouldn’t say the hardest, but definitely the most meticulous. Good trackers are rare.”

She nodded. “Is Sheridan trained to detect certain scents?”

“No. To a tracker, a scent is a scent. Give him a sample, and if it’s in the vicinity, he’ll find it. He’s received several commendations for service,” Mike said. He pulled out his cell phone, punched buttons to bring up a photo slideshow and handed it across the table. “These are some of the missions we’ve been on the past couple of years.” She pored over the pictures and asked him questions about each one. He proudly relayed Sheridan’s accomplishments.

She held up the phone to show the picture of a woman who’d been trapped in a collapsed building for three days before being removed from the rubble. “I saw this on TV—this was you and Sheridan?”

“Mostly Sheridan,” he assured her. “He’s in high demand. It’s only pure luck he hasn’t been called up lately. I dread that day if he isn’t better.” The knot in his stomach tightened at the mere thought.

“How did you find Sheridan in the first place?”

Mike smiled at the memory. “In the pound. Handlers go to animal shelters sometimes looking for good SAR candidates. Some of the traits that make a dog a high-maintenance pet are the same traits that make it a good SAR dog.”

“Such as?”

“Too much energy—the need for constant attention and play. To an SAR dog, finding something or someone is really just a game—they work for the reward at the end, which is praise and a treat.”

She held up the phone again. “Is this a video?”

He nodded. “That’s footage from our last assignment in Missouri.”

“May I watch?”

“Of course.” He scooted his chair next to hers and leaned forward to hit the play button. Her sweet citrusy scent enveloped him, making him fumble. The hem of her dress had inched up, revealing a section of lean thigh. With the memory of her curves pressed against him to draw upon, his body reacted predictably. Mike shifted in his chair and focused on narrating the ninety-second clip. He watched the footage with a bittersweet pang—he hoped it wasn’t Sheridan’s last mission. On the video, Sheridan was alert and energized, eager to be given a job to do. That dog was a far cry from the lethargic animal lying at their feet.

“I can see what you mean by his changed behavior,” Lacey said, her voice low.

“But you can fix him,” Mike insisted.

Lacey waited until the video had finished playing before responding. Her green eyes were wistful. “Mike, my theory that Sheridan was struck by an electrical jolt is just that—a theory. And even if it happened, that might not be the only problem.”

He nodded, fighting the panic growing in his chest—this woman was his last hope. If she wasn’t convinced Sheridan could be helped, where did it leave him?

“But we’ll get started first thing tomorrow morning,” Lacey added with a smile that left him inexplicably giddy.

She insisted on helping him clean up the kitchen, and although he wasn’t accustomed to having anyone else to maneuver around, she slipped around him in the small space like a dancer. Upon learning she also preferred music to television, he found a vintage-rock station on the radio sitting on the bookshelf, conceding the bass sound wasn’t half-bad. They talked and shared stories about their backgrounds. Lacey’s urban experience had been so different from his, yet she seemed as devoted to her family as he was to his own.

He asked her about her decision to relocate to Sweetness, and was impressed with her spirit to pick up and move to an unfamiliar place to start a business of her own. Her face glowed when she talked about how much she loved working with the dogs and getting to know their owners.

She asked about his military career and listened, her green eyes wide and luminous, as he recounted a few of his favorite memories. She made him feel like a hero…and he could no longer deny she made him feel like a man.

With a jolt, he admitted something even more profound—he liked Lacey Lovejoy’s company. So when the last dish was put away and she smothered a yawn behind her small, shapely hand, he was disappointed to see the evening end.

“Where’s Sheridan?” she asked suddenly, looking around.

They found him cowering underneath a low bench, his head burrowed between his paws.

“It’s