Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (30 page)

“My mother and I aren’t close.”

“What about your father?” Stephanie was going for the throat tonight.

“Look,” Tony said, knowing this line of conversation would unglue Tim eventually. “She’s here. I invited her.” He eased back against the porch rail, crossed his ankles, and went to work on the pie. “We work together.” He wouldn’t look at her because that was like men looking at Medusa. Not that he’d turn to stone. The opposite—he’d be putty. She had a power over him no other woman had even come close to. And her stunt in Little Rock told him that was definitely
not
a good thing.

“So, how long are you staying?” Grady sounded too interested.

Would it be uncool to take out his brother with an RPG? “We head out in the morning for a mission.” Tony set his plate down and folded his arms, doing his best to drive home his point for Grady to back off.

“Military? Never would’ve guessed.” When Grady’s gaze raked her again, it brought a chill then his big brother smiled.

“Why’s that?” The edge in Timbrel’s voice warned Tony this discussion was heading toward dangerous territory.

Grady, acting all cavalier and suave, gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Just too sweet.” He grinned. “And pretty.”

Tony sat on the small padded sofa next to Timbrel. “Prior Navy. She’s a handler.” He pointed to Beowulf, who trotted toward them. “That’s her working dog. He can kill you with one bite.”

Timbrel frowned at him. “I can talk.”

Gaze shifting between her and Tony, amusement tugging at lips, Grady finally gave a slow nod. “Okay, little brother. No need to get riled.” He smiled at Timbrel.

“So, you’ve seen combat?” his father asked.

The concussive boom of that question left a hollowness in Tony’s gut. His mom slowed in her tidying, and he gave her a subtle nod to keep moving, keep things normal. Combat was
not
a good conversation topic with his father. In fact, it was one of his triggers.

Timbrel felt the dread tighten as she met Mr. VanAllen’s steady, probing gaze. “A little.” Was this appropriate talk in front of the children? Though she couldn’t put her finger on it, something here on the deck had shifted.

“And your dog works with you?” Mr. VanAllen smiled.

“Yes, sir.”
Don’t look at Tony. Don’t look at him
. “Beo and I did sweeps before high-profile events, but other than that, we patrolled.”

“And you’re working with Tony—does that go well?” A strange twinkle lit his green eyes—just like Tony’s.

“Dad,” Tony said, a warning in his tone.

Unsure whether to answer or not, Timbrel gave a slow nod. “Yes, sir. Most times.”

He smiled. “Manners, pretty face”—he grinned at Tony—“I like this one. Good job, son.”

Heat infused her cheeks. Timbrel cut into the pie sitting on her lap. Tony had as much said their relationship ended in Little Rock, and he’d been distant and aloof. Still, the baiting of his father embarrassed her. She’d come here seeking shelter.

No … not true. She came seeking resolution with Tony, though she had no right to ask for it. Though he clearly wasn’t going to give it.

“Timbrel,” Irene spoke up. “How long have you and Beowulf been partnered?”

“Five years. Since he was a year old.” Timbrel rubbed her hand over Beowulf’s head. The bullmastiff’s eyes drooped in pleasure, panting lightly.

“You two have a strong bond.”

Timbrel glanced to the side where Beo sat like a gentleman. “He’s the best. Saved a lot of lives, including mine.”

“Really?”

“Regarding the military,” Stephanie Kowalski said, “I’m not convinced women should be in combat.”

Timbrel heard the unspoken jibe. She’d detected cold vibes from the woman since she and her family walked in. “I patrol and that’s not technically combat, although it can quickly escalate from a passive scenario to an active engagement.”

A blond, her hair in a stylish inverted bob, she had it all. A husband, two children, a career as a teacher, and family. “I just don’t know that I could do that. I’d prefer to take care of my family and husband.”

Was this Stephanie’s way of pointing out that Timbrel had neither of those?

“Or be with my family.”

“Then it’s not your calling,” Tony said, his voice flat as he moved up onto a cushioned lawn chair. “And being in a classroom with twenty second graders isn’t for Timbrel.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty obvious.”

“Steph,” Tony chided.

“No,” Timbrel said, “it’s okay. She’s right. I’m not teacher material.”

“Hey, Gunny. How’s that coming?”

Confusion stilled Timbrel as she looked around to see who Mr. VanAllen was talking to. As she searched for the so-called Gunny, she noticed Tony come forward in his chair, movements controlled and intentional.

“Gunny, I asked you a question.” Mr. VanAllen’s voice held a rigidity she hadn’t heard before. His salt-and-pepper hair glinted beneath the patio light as he scowled, his weathered features twisted in frustration.

“Get the kids inside,” Tony said.

Stephanie and her husband gathered the children and hustled them into the house.

“Gunny, report.” His father’s eyes were on her … yet … not. A blank stare.

“Clear out,” Tony’s firm, tight words sliced through her confusion as he eased forward, moving between her and his father’s line of sight. With a hand on her knee, he nudged her out of the space.

Timbrel complied, sensing Tony’s “mission” mode. She stepped down the deck stairs and into the yard where Beowulf trotted up to her with his ball.

“Colonel, what’s the sitrep?” Tony crouched by his father, eyeing the door where his mother hurried into the house.

“Not good, Lieutenant. Not good.”

“I’m listening, sir.”

Hand over her mouth, Timbrel watched the exchange. Watched Tony’s skill with his father. Obviously not the first time this had happened—Tony had been prepared. His mother as well.

“If you’d just kept your tales of woe to yourself,” Stephanie came up behind her and muttered the hateful words.

I thought she went inside
.

Stephanie brushed past with one of Hayden’s shoes in hand and slipped into the house without another word or scathing rebuke.

The words couldn’t be dislodged and tightened like a poisonous vine around Timbrel’s throat and heart. Whatever she did to Tony’s sister to make her hate her, Timbrel wished she could undo that mistake. But being the daughter of a socialite, she also had people hate her just for existing. She didn’t want to believe the latter of Stephanie, but she’d done nothing but be polite and quiet since they met right before dinner.

Grady eased into the seat on his father’s left. Tony on the right. Tense. Alert. Both guys seemed ready to take down their father. Timbrel’s heart ached and pushed her farther into the yard, away from the family stuff happening she didn’t belong in.

“Dad—”

“Who is that out there?”

Timbrel’s pulse slowed.
Oh no. He’s looking right at me
.

“Johnson, you got a bead on that?”

In the dark, amid a few trees, she probably looked like a threat.

“Dad,” Tony said, speaking softly, “that’s just Timbrel. Remember—the girl you liked? Said she was pretty?”

“Gunny,” his dad yelled, “get in here before they rip your head off! Johnson, take out that target before they get us!”

Timbrel guessed this to be some flashback, even though she hadn’t witnessed one firsthand before. It was creepy and terrifying. He was there, normal and laughing. Then the next minute, he was in some perceived deadly situation.

“Dad, you’re okay. You’re at home.”

“Now! Before we lose them!” Mr. VanAllen lunged between Tony and Grady.

The sons caught their father, hauling him back. Arms flailed. Shouting erupted.

Timbrel fought the tears. Seeing a grown man, a respectable grown man fighting his own sons …

An all-out brawl exploded. Fists. Grunts.

The hollow painful thud of a punch connecting.

Mortified, Timbrel backstepped.

Beowulf leapt forward.

She sucked in a breath. “Beo, heel!”

But he went unheeding. Shot up the steps. Right into the middle of the fray.

        Nineteen        

A
fist flew.

Tony caught it and turned Dad’s hand back as he and Grady wrestled Dad to the deck. “Easy there, Colonel,” he said in a calm, firm voice, hopefully filled with reassurance.

Dad thrashed. “Get away from me you piece of—”

It wasn’t the first time his dad, a Baptist-bred and -raised boy, spouted expletives at Tony during an episode.

“All clear!” Tony shouted. “Colonel, threat neutralized. Just me and the private here trying to help you out.”

“Don’t give me that! I know when I’m being manipulated.” Dad’s voice growled worse than Tim’s dog. “It won’t work this time. I’m not an idiot!”

Meaty jowls slopped into Dad’s face.

Caught off guard, Tony flinched away. Nothing like finding a 120-pound dog staring you down. Beo pushed in closer, his weight against Tony’s shoulder and arm pinning Dad to the deck. “Timbrel!” Man, the beast was heavy. “Call him off!”

Beo’s tongue swiped Dad’s cheek.

“What on earth?” Grady muttered as their father strained forward.

As drool slopped Tony’s face, he cringed and pushed his father back down. “Timbrel, now!” A fist jabbed toward him. Tony dodged it as he scrabbled for purchase on the decking.