Handle With Care
Authors: Patrice Wilton
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2013 Patrice Wilton
Originally published as a Kindle Serial, July 2013
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781477848906
ISBN-10: 1477848908
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013911418
First of all, I would like to thank all the men and women
who have valiantly gone to war and fought for freedom.
All of you are the true heroes of my story.
I would also like to show appreciation to the incredibly
wonderful Wounded Warrior Project, which I learned
about during my research. For more information on
this organization that assists and supports our wounded
warriors and their families, please see
http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/ .
On a personal note, I would like to thank my fabulous
agent, Pam Ahearn, and everyone at Montlake, the
brilliant editors, and the author’s team, who are
marketing gurus.
I would also like to welcome the latest addition to my
growing family—my fourth granddaughter, Andrea Wilton.
Love to her and all my extended family.
Table of Contents
S
hane Dawson surveyed the boardwalk, his grip on Major’s leash tight. The pup pulled, eager to join the steady Saturday stream of joggers and skateboarders. The temperature of the slightly damp air hovered in the mid-sixties. It was only mid-April—not yet tourist season—and Belmont Beach in Southern California bustled with perpetual energy. Probably not the best spot for training a dog, but Shane’s time was severely limited, and so was the pup’s.
“Come on, Major, let’s go.” He adjusted the length of the leash, not wanting to give too much. The problem pup immediately bit the rope and tugged. Shane shook his head but couldn’t stop the grin. “Let go. This isn’t a game. You know the rules.”
The golden lab ignored him and playfully growled around a mouthful of leash. Shane muttered, “Don’t do this. You buck the system, you’re labeled a screw-up for life. Trust me, boy; I know what I’m talking about.” He knew the words were useless and that the misguided animal would learn by making his own mistakes. Just as he had. But he aimed to make sure the price wasn’t too steep.
“Look, you learn this, you can be a ‘hero dog.’ It’s a really big deal. Don’t you want that? Helping folks out, making a difference?” He leaned over and took the leash out of Major’s mouth. “Just behave. You know what you have to do. Walk. Halt. Heel. And fetch things when I tell you to.”
Major gave up the game of tug-of-war, looking around for something of more interest. They crossed the street successfully, entering the fray of people. He knew the dog didn’t have a mean bone in his body but just needed discipline—and time to be a puppy. But that wasn’t in his cards. He was being trained to help the wounded warriors recently returned from war, but so far Major didn’t get it.
Any dog could be ordinary, but Major had a chance to be so much more. He was smart and knew all the basic obedience skills, except he liked to play more than he liked to work.
Shane couldn’t blame him for that—he’d spent most of his life doing the same thing. After graduation from high school, instead of going to college he and a buddy had hitchhiked to California to become surfers and make action films. When that didn’t pan out, they’d joined Cal Fire, the California Forestry and Fire Protection department, and he became a medic, while his friend flew choppers. With close to 6,000 wildland fires per year, they never lacked for action.
Both men had relished the excitement and danger, but after several years on the job, Shane had wanted more. Exactly what, he wasn’t sure—but something bigger than what he was doing. So he took online college courses, concentrating on science and pre-med, figuring one day he’d want a promotion from being an ambulance driver. He’d been close to getting his bachelor’s when he hit a major bump in the road, setting him on a wild detour.
An attempt to blow up Disney World had been miraculously thwarted, and the children and families lived to see another day. But Shane couldn’t shake it off. After 9/11, nothing seemed right in the world. The religious fanatics in the Middle East were bringing their bombers and prejudice to his turf, threatening the core of American civilization. He refused to sit by and do nothing. The following week he joined the army, eager to take the fight to Iraq.
Major sniffed the air, straining against his restraints, but Shane yanked him in. Discipline could be learned; it could save lives. “Whoa, take it easy, little guy. Remember the rules: Walk, don’t run.”
After a few more tugs, the pup trotted along beside him. Major held his head high, his mouth slightly open, his nostrils twitching, as he took in his new surroundings. He wagged his tail and seemed to have a perpetual sappy smile on his face.
Too friendly, the trainer said, and gave the dog a month to shape up or be shipped out. Shane, as a volunteer for the Wounded Warrior Project, had offered to take the dog for a couple of weeks, to see if he could teach him the importance of service.
“Now, I’m going to unleash you for a minute.” He stooped over and looked the dog in the eye. “This is your big chance here, so don’t blow it.” He patted the dog on the head and unhooked the leash.
“Remember who you are. A military dog, enlisted to give service. Now make me proud.” Major gave Shane’s bionic hand a lick and then trotted along beside him.
Shane wiped his i-limb on his T-shirt and noticed a few curious stares. He was used to it now and almost proud of the realistic appendage, but it made other people uncomfortable. The mechanical hand, with its lifelike fingers controlled by electrical signals, was highly functional, unlike the old C-shaped pinchers (he’d had one of those, too). He knew he was damn lucky to get an i-limb courtesy of the military, and not because he was a war hero, either. Let other people call him that. He knew the truth, and had to live with it too.
He’d been a medic in Iraq, and on his first mission he’d been captured and tortured by the Iraqi forces. After six months of daily beatings and being forced to patch up their wounded, Navy Seals had miraculously crept into the enemy camp and released him. He’d spent many months in hospitals and rehab and had been given several prosthetics, yet miserable son-of-a-bitch that he was, he’d not been in an appreciative mood. Nothing could fix what ailed him or take away his deepening despair. Tormented over losing his limb, worried about his future—or what he considered his lack of one—he hadn’t wanted to live anymore.
If it weren’t for his best buddy, Brent, and his family connections, Shane’d still be a bitter, broken-down vet, drinking himself into a slow death and living off the streets. They’d guided him toward the Wounded Warrior Project, where, after a few ups and downs, he’d cleaned up his act. Found something to believe in again.
“Come on, Major. Let’s finish up. You’re doing great, and I’ve got to get to work.”
Major sat then and growled a warning. Shane looked up just in time to see a young boy on a bike weaving through pedestrians, right toward them. A frantic woman rode behind, apologizing and calling for the kid to slow down. The boy noticed Shane and veered left at the same time that Major attempted to get out of the way.
Shane winced as the boy—he figured the kid to be about five or six years old—flipped over the handlebar and landed chin down on the hard cement. His mother skidded to a stop, lost her balance, and toppled off her own bike. The boy howled, and Major, eager to give comfort, licked the kid’s face.
Shane pulled Major back and clipped the leash onto his collar. “Hey there,” Shane said, dropping to his knees and touching the kid’s shoulder. “I’m a medic. I can help.”
The woman, eyes flashing with anger and worry, reared up on her skinned knees. She pushed him aside. “Step away from my son. I’m a doctor, and your dog was running loose.”
Technically, her kid had run over his dog, but now wasn’t the time to split hairs. “He’s not my dog. I’m just training him,” Shane replied, while mentally cataloguing obvious injuries. The chin was bleeding a lot and might need a stitch. “Doctor trumps medic,” he said and scooted out of the way.
She ignored him and concentrated on her son. “Josh, let me see your face. Does it hurt anywhere else?”
The boy lifted his eyes, tears spilling down a scratched cheek while blood dripped from his chin. “My arm hurts, Mom.”
“Oh, honey. Let me take a look.” Her efficient moves were part doctor and part mom before she released a sigh and pressed a kiss to a clean spot on the boy’s forehead. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but you may have dislocated it.” She glanced at Shane. “I didn’t bring my cell phone. Could you call an ambulance, please?”
Shane whipped his phone from his pocket, glad to be of service. Major scooted closer to Josh, sneaking in a face lick. “You got it.”
She took off her lightweight pink top and pressed the soft inside of the fabric to Josh’s chin. Without her jacket on, Shane could see the curve of her full breasts. Hardly the moment to be appreciating her physical attributes, although she had plenty; he chastised himself and quickly glanced away.
“He may need stitches,” she muttered. “And he definitely will need his arm examined.”
Shane ended the call and stood, scanning the boardwalk, as impatient as the mother for the EMT to show. “They have a vehicle nearby. It’ll just be a few minutes.”
“Thanks.” She focused her attention on her son, stroking his hair while keeping the once pink and now red jacket in place. Calm, collected, but definitely loving. “You might miss a day of school, but otherwise you’ll be fine. You’re so brave, Josh. Shh, it’s okay, now.”
Shane didn’t think the kid was so brave, as the more Mom sympathized, the louder Josh bawled. Major howled in unison, accompanying the boy in a pitiful duet. Eager to distract them, Shane lifted his bionic hand, flexed his mechanical fingers, and began to make scratching motions in the air. Then he wrestled it down with his good hand.
The boy stopped the hysterics with a hiccup. Wide-eyed, he whispered, “What
is
that? It’s so weird.”
“It’s a bionic hand, and you’re right,” Shane told him. “It is weird. The stupid thing has a mind of its own and acts out all the time. Especially in public. It’s so embarrassing.”
The kid giggled and shot a look at his mother. “You’re not supposed to say ‘stupid,’ is he, Mom? It’s a bad word.”
Shane glanced at the pretty woman cradling her son, and cocked an eyebrow. “Stupid? Since when?”
“Oh, some time ago.” She eyed his prosthetic, and some of the earlier frost left her turquoise eyes. “That’s a pretty cool hand. I haven’t seen one before.”
He held it out for her to see. “Yup. It’s an i-limb. Top of the line.” He grinned. “Call me lucky.”
“I didn’t say that.” She frowned, and her eyes met his. “What happened?”
He kept the facts short. No one was interested in his hard-luck story, and he had to keep it light for Josh. “Got my hand chopped off in Iraq.”
Josh made a face. “Eew! Bet that hurt.”
“I’m sure it did”—he gave a careless shrug—“but I passed out. Don’t remember a thing.”
The boy’s eyes grew even rounder. “Really?” Not waiting for a reply, he glanced at Major. “Your dog is licking my leg. Can I pet him?”
“Probably shouldn’t.” With reluctance, Shane pulled the dog away. “He’s training to be a hero dog.”
“What’s a hero dog?” the kid wanted to know.
“I thought you were kidding,” Doctor Mom said.
“They help our military who’ve come back from war with missing limbs. The dogs become their companions and are trained to fetch and do household chores. Like open doors and closets. Some dogs even do laundry.”
“Wow, Mom. Could we have one of those? You hate laundry.”
She glanced at Shane and managed a small smile. “No, Josh. Others less fortunate than ourselves need these highly skilled dogs a whole lot more than we do.”
The boy’s cheeks turned pink. “But what if I broke my hand or my wrist? Then could I have one?”
“You haven’t broken anything,” his mother replied and ruffled his hair. “Good try, Pumpkin.”
“Don’t call me that. It’s a baby’s name.”
“You’re still my baby and always will be.” She tickled him, and tried to sneak in a quick kiss, but the boy wasn’t having it.
Josh attempted to push himself up but grimaced painfully. “Is that why you have this dog?” he asked Shane. “Does he do things for you?”
“No, I can function on my own.” He flexed his hand, knowing Doctor Mom was listening to every word. “Major isn’t behaving as well as he should. He’ll be kicked out of school if he doesn’t stop jumping on people. Like today, he got in your way and made you fall off the bike.” Shane gave the kid an out.
“Wasn’t his fault. I was going too fast and couldn’t steer right. He won’t get in trouble, will he?” The boy’s eyes filled with tears once more, this time the empathetic kind.
“No, not for that. I agreed to help train him because he’s smart enough to be a service dog, but he’s just too friendly.”
“That’s a hard life for a dog just the same,” the boy’s mother said, and for the first time she looked directly at him.
He felt a jolt of awareness shooting through him.
Eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea and just as deep and fathomless. A man could get lost in them. She had a cute, upturned nose and soft, kissable lips. Not that he wanted to kiss her or any woman. He didn’t have the time or the inclination to romance someone and preferred the simplicity of a one-night stand. Not that he’d had one of those in a long, long time.
When he’d first been treated at Walter Reed, an old girlfriend came to visit. He’d glimpsed the pity in her eyes when she looked at the ugly stump, before she’d turned away. To spare her any more pain, he’d told her that he’d met someone else when he was overseas. She’d left in a hurry, glad to get away. He was in a much better place mentally now, but dating was far from his list. He had important things to do, like finishing his pre-med courses and getting into a good school. Hero dog training was just another he’d added to his list of responsibilities.
“Have we met before?” he asked, his eyes searching her face. He could swear he’d seen her before. The hospital maybe?
“No, I’m sure we haven’t,” she answered, looking down the boardwalk. “Where are those medics? What’s taking them so long?”
He was about to call to find out, when he spotted them weaving their way toward them. “Here they are.”
“About time.”
He nodded in agreement. The last thing he needed was a visceral attraction to a beautiful woman. No woman, no matter how pretty, would deter him from his solitary path.