Ranger - K.M. Neuhold Page 0,3
barely have the front door open when a loud bray pierces my eardrums.
“For the love of all that’s holy, Doc, your breakfast is coming,” I shout back, even though it’s useless. Doc is as deaf as a doorknob. PP immediately trots off, but the other five dogs wait for my release signal, then go about their business and stretch their legs.
As I step into the barn, the familiar, comforting smell of hay and horse hits me. Some may call the scent an acquired taste, but I just call it home. The horses rattle their stall doors, and Doc brays loudly again. I feed him first. He’s been known to finagle his stall open if I make him wait too long. How he does it is a mystery. I’m half convinced he’s not a donkey at all but an interdimensional sorcerer. Or just really smart. Whichever.
I whistle as I go about my morning chores of feeding all my furry kiddos. Then I turn them loose so I can clean the barn. After the horses, I tend to the chickens and finally, my one lone goat, which I was supposed to train for a movie, but goats make huskies look like honor students by comparison. Butler is my nemesis, and he knows it.
I dodge his horns as I fill his trough with alfalfa hay and then open the door that leads out to the horse pasture. He likes to hang out with the horses; he just doesn’t like me. I’m not sure why. I’m a rather friendly guy if he’d give me half a chance.
With all that done, I have just enough time to grab a shower before hopping into my truck.
Half an hour later, I pull slowly into the long driveway leading up to the house, gravel crunching under my tires. I park and double-check the notes I made after the phone call last night.
When I first answered the phone, silence greeted me on the other end of the line, and I’d figured whoever was calling had gotten a wrong number and hung up. But right when I was about to end the call, a thready, quiet voice had come through the phone.
He told me his name was Ranger and that I’d spoken to his brother Lucky. Things clicked into place from there. Lucky had called me months ago, asking a lot of pointed questions about how my dogs could help veterans suffering from PTSD. We’d had a good chat about things, and he’d said he’d pass the information along. When I didn’t hear anything, I figured the brother simply wasn’t interested. Now I’m thinking it might’ve been a little more serious than that.
I hop out of my truck, glancing around at the unkempt property. The grass is long, and the roof looks like it might be one bad storm away from caving in. But it also seems the front door has a fresh cover of paint, so maybe he’s working on it? I give him the benefit of the doubt. I stride up to the door, bracing myself for whatever might be waiting on the other side. Over the years, I’ve seen it all from vets who were mostly getting by but needed a little extra emotional support to those who looked like they might fall apart at any second, and everything in between.
I rap at the door. Within seconds, footsteps thump on the other side. I step back from the door and keep my hands out of my pockets, plastering on a big smile so I look as nonthreatening as possible; all things I’ve discovered over the years of working with vets dealing with extreme cases of PTSD.
The door swings open. Fiddlesticks, he’s hot. He’s pale and a bit skinny and looks like he hasn’t showered in a few days, but still, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.
Sadly, this isn’t Grindr, and I’m not here to drool over the dark-eyed man with the strong jaw and surprisingly long eyelashes.
“Hi, I’m Julian with Pups for Patriots,” I introduce myself, slowly extending my hand. I learned my lesson the first time I came on way too strong, thrusting my hand out with all the enthusiasm god gave me and nearly triggered the poor woman into an attack. Since then, I’m always careful to keep a tight lid on my eagerness, especially during the initial meeting.
“Ranger,” he answers, his voice clipped but not unfriendly. Guarded, that’s what it is.
He leads me into the living room, and luckily for everyone involved, the