Navy Rules. Geri Krotow

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СКАЧАТЬ on Whidbey, shore duty, and give you time to heal. Then we’ll see where it all falls out for an O-6 command.”

      His boss, the Wing Commander, had done everything Max would have done for one of his own charges. He’d been compassionate, honest, strong.

      But having been a commanding officer himself, Max saw beyond the clichéd promises.

      Max had seen the look of resignation in his boss’s eyes. He didn’t expect Max to return to a real Navy job. His operational days were done. No one came back whole from what he’d seen—the monster who’d appeared in the form of the suicide bomber he’d prevented from killing hundreds of fellow servicemen and women.

      Instead of preparing his squadron for another deployment, during which they’d become the well-honed warriors they’d signed up to be, he was sitting on his deck, staring at the Cascade Mountains, waiting for some volunteer social worker to bring over a dog.

      A dog.

      It wasn’t that he didn’t like dogs. Max planned on having several once his Navy days were over. Hell, since he was on shore duty indefinitely, he could even consider going to the animal shelter in Coupeville and adopting himself a real dog. Something big and furry. He’d never been a tiny-dog fan. If the dog handler showed up with anything smaller than a bear cub he wasn’t going to work with it.

      His problem wasn’t with the dog per se. Max’s problem was with still needing therapy. He’d accepted the weekly meetings with the on-base counselor. He’d met with the PTSD support group and shared his feelings. Yet his therapist thought he’d benefit from some dog time. Dog therapy time.

      He blamed himself for asking what else he could do to help the other sailors. It was getting too painful to go back to the base day after day and not be able to walk into a hangar that he’d practically owned. Not to face a squadron of courageous young men and women and know that he was leading the best team on the planet. Know that he was the CO they could count on to lead them through hell and back.

      His therapist had suggested canine therapy.

      “Do you mean so I can give therapy to other vets?”

      “No, Max. So you can get some healing from the dog. The caretaker isn’t a therapist, just a handler. You and the dog form the bond.”

      “But you mean I’ll do this so I can then provide the same service to others, right?”

      Marlene Goodreach, his therapist, had shifted in her seat. Her face was lined, no doubt because of the countless tales of horror she’d helped sailors like him unburden.

      “Max. This is about you. You’ve done brilliantly—your physical wounds have healed, your memory is back. But you’re still resistant to facing your own anger and disappointment over the change in your career plans. I think working with a therapy dog would help the tension you still have in your gut.”

      Max had learned that the price of throwing himself into his recovery and hoping to eventually help others was that his therapist got to know him too well. He didn’t have the option of keeping his emotions from Marlene.

      At least the counselor had agreed to let him meet the dog and its handler on his own turf, away from the looks of pity on base NAS Whidbey Island.

      He clenched his hands around the porch railing. Only when his grip became painful did he force himself to breathe and release his grip. He despised the well-meaning comments, the compassionate glances, the fatherly pats on the shoulder.

      “Take care of yourself, Max. You’ve been through a lot.”

      “Hey, you’ve had command, you brought the team home, relax.”

      “You’ve earned this shore tour. Enjoy it.”

      “Why not retire after this, take some time for Max? You’ll make O-6, what’s your worry?”

      He didn’t even like working out on base anymore. Too many familiar faces. He flexed his feet. The soreness in his calves was a testament to the extra-long session he’d put on the spin bike he’d bought. He kept it on the glassed-in deck upstairs, so he could watch the sun come up as he rode in place.

      He saw the sunrise every day. Sleep wasn’t a given for him anymore.

      The dark clouds threatened rain but so far only gusts of tropical warmth rustled the underbrush under tall firs that waved with the wind. Spring on Whidbey meant chaos as far as the weather was concerned.

      He saw the approaching car before he heard it. A compact station wagon. As it neared he recognized the larger shape in back—the dog.

      The woman in the driver’s seat made him catch his breath.

      No.

      It was the same honey corkscrew hair, the same generous mouth under the too-round-to-be-classic nose.

      Was this some kind of joke? The very woman he’d guided through the fires of her own hell when Tom died was here to reach a hand into his purgatory?

      More importantly, the woman who’d rejected him and whom he’d avoided since his return.

      He stood as she brought the car to a stop in front of his house. She stepped out and walked straight to the back. There was no mistaking her graceful gait, her purposeful stride.

      Winnie always knew where she was going, save for that brief tortured time after Tom’s death.

      She opened the back of the wagon and commanded the dog down. It was a big dog but not a fluffy soft breed. The mostly black coat ruffled a little in the strong breeze.

      Not a tiny dog, at least.

      Max let out a sigh. The dog appeared to be tough and knowing as he trotted next to Winnie up the driveway.

      She drew closer and he tried to stay focused on the dog, Winnie’s muddy boots, her barn coat, her jeans. Anything but the face he had trouble forgetting… He’d prided himself on staying away from her since his return to Whidbey two months earlier. He hadn’t even checked to see if she was still on the island—he assumed she was, or nearby, since her family lived in the vicinity.

      But he’d kept her out of his life, away from the mess his mental state had made of it.

      Until now.

      She stopped a few feet away, close enough for him to make out the almond shape of her long-lashed amber eyes, yet far enough not to invite physical contact. No hello hug.

      “Max.” She’d known it was him; he saw that in the resigned line of her mouth. But she hadn’t called first, hadn’t given him fair warning.

      Hell, why should she? She made her feelings clear when she didn’t return your calls over two years ago.

      He’d last seen her just before he’d taken the one-year position of Executive Officer, which had led into his next tour, also one year, as Commanding Officer.

      “Winnie.” He stood at the edge of the drive, his hands in his pockets. Her hands were busy, too—one thrust in her pocket and one on the leash.

      He’d always loved her hands. They were warm, long-fingered, СКАЧАТЬ