Kurt felt the heat rising up his neck, burning his jawline. He allowed his hands to close loosely over her shoulder blades. It hit him how petite she was. “Hey,” he said, tiring of the confining hug well before she was ready to let go, “seriously.”
She finally took a step back. “How about you scoot over, Kurtis, so I can have a seat smack-dab between the two most important men in my universe.”
William cleared his throat or outright scoffed. Kurt couldn’t tell over the music. His grandfather’s face, as usual, was poker perfect.
Kurt slid over without complaint, having no desire to be locked in between the two of them. Then he waved at the bartender, knowing he’d need another beer to get through the next hour. Hell, who was he kidding? He’d need another two or three. A fresh wave of fatigue swept over him, reminding him why it’d been easier to extend his tour than to finally come home.
But he’d been away long enough. The truth was, he’d shut them out long enough. Nana had once phrased it perfectly. Though he could no longer remember her exact words, he remembered the gist. Living, ostracized, dead, or embraced, your family was still your family.
“Mom,” he said, “what is it you’re drinking nowadays?”
* * *
Kurt hoped the two-and-a-half-hour drive back to St. Louis the next morning would be the distraction he needed. He awoke an hour before dawn from chaotic dreams that were the detritus of his years of service. He’d planned to spend the last part of the day catching up with some old buddies still stationed at the post, but he was too antsy to wait around until they were off duty.
And after surviving the uneasy family reunion last night, the idea of hanging around Fort Leonard Wood an entire day with no solid plans wasn’t enticing. His mother had mentioned she had the day off, but try as he might, Kurt could only tolerate her in small doses.
His thoughts circled as he headed east on Interstate 44. Reconnecting with Rob Bornello was long overdue. Kurt had never gotten around to seeing Rob when he was home on leave, and he genuinely missed his mentor. He’d like to believe that driving nearly 150 miles back to St. Louis less than twenty-four hours after landing had nothing to do with the images of the dogs that had flashed across the TV screen last night.
But Kurt was getting better about not lying to himself. He wouldn’t rest easy until he got inside that warehouse and saw the dogs for himself. He just needed reassurance they were being rehoused into centers with caring, competent staff. Whatever he saw today, Kurt was determined not to get involved. He’d make a donation, but he was staying out of this mess. He’d lost too many dogs—and too many buddies—over the last several years. It was a commitment he’d made after losing Zara in Afghanistan a few months back.
He needed a break. Needed to immerse himself in something that didn’t matter. Something physically demanding that would have him crawling into bed after a demanding day, something to exhaust his body and quiet his mind. And he intended to do it where it wasn’t hot.
He knew Rob was going to try to put him to work, but in the long run, Rob would understand. Rob had introduced him to the K-9 world. Kurt had started shadowing him at the post as soon as his grandparents trusted him to bike away for the afternoon. Rob had kept in contact after he left the post, taking Kurt to exhibitions with him a few times a year.
By the time he pulled into a gas station a mile from the warehouse address his grandfather had shoved at him as he was leaving the bar last night, Kurt was surprised to find it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. He’d grab a cup of coffee and whatever prepackaged breakfast sandwich looked the best under the heat lamps and be on his way.
* * *
If Kelsey had any doubt diving into a dogfighting rescue would be controversial, it vanished as she and Fidel, her coworker, pulled in front of the warehouses in north St. Louis County where the confiscated animals were being held. It was only eight in the morning, and the picketers were already here, polka-dotting opposite sides of the street. Peacefully it seemed, so far anyway.
Kelsey scanned the handwritten posters as she stepped from her car. The clearly animal-rights side wanted harsh punishments for the dog men and demanded an end to vicious dogfighting. A few people held posters with enlarged pictures of themselves snuggling with well-known fighting breeds, pit bulls mostly. Some had even brought their dogs along. Kelsey counted at least four leashed pit bulls, two Rottweilers, and a few breeds she couldn’t identify milling among the group of supporters.
Her cheeks flamed hot as she took in the posters on the opposite side of the street. It wasn’t only the glare of the morning sun that caused their posters to burn her retinas. A quick skim made it clear these protesters didn’t want the animals being rehabbed. Once a killer, always a killer. Protect our neighborhoods, stop killing sprees before they happen. Humanely euthanize now and save human lives. One poster asserted that animals existed to serve humans, and fighting dogs didn’t serve anyone.
She chewed hard on her tongue to keep from stalking over with a mouthful of statistics none of them would likely care to hear. Fighting with fired-up protesters wouldn’t change their minds and would only give her a headache.
Fidel, who’d been finishing up a phone call with his wife, stepped out from the passenger seat and surveyed the scene. He made a guttural sound, and Kelsey wondered if she might have to guide him away from the protesters. Fidel grew up in the slums of Mexico
