“Well, you must not have taught her well because she refused to sleep on the floor. The only place she would sleep was in my bed,” he tells me.
“Sorry, I thought I broke her of that,” I say, sitting back on the couch.
“What do you mean you thought you broke her of that?” he asks, so, I lean back on the couch and explain.
“Well, Gracie was my personal dog. I was planning on training her to keep her, but when I read your application, I knew you needed her more than I did. It just so happened we were in the process of breaking the habit of sleeping on my bed when your application came across my desk. I knew you were in need of a special dog and Gracie holds a special place for me.” I don’t even know why I told him that, for some reason I lose all common sense when this man is around.
“You gave up your personal dog, just so I could have one?” he questions.
“Well, her end goal was to go with me to the hospital every day and be a therapy dog for patients, but any dog can be trained to do that. I think you and Gracie need each other,” I explain, hoping it makes sense.
“What exactly do you do at the hospital?” he asks.
“I’m a PRN nurse for the pediatric oncology ward at the hospital. Dogs Inc. is the company I started after my sister’s first deployment. I was working with therapy dogs for a while, but it was mainly for my patients not for our veterans,” I explain, hoping it all makes sense.
Something about him makes me want to tell him everything. Maybe he could help me understand what happened to Grace when she was over there.
“So, that is why you checked me out after my fall yesterday.” he says, patting Gracie’s head running his fingers through her fur.
“Yes, but more so because I can tell you are stubborn, and you thought I was going to pity you,” I inform him.
He is taken aback by my accusations. “I just don’t want people feeling sorry for me. I am doing just fine,” he says, getting defensive again.
Clearing my throat. “Let me take a look at your leg,” I say.
Before he could protest, my fingers make contact with his skin and warmth like fire shoots up my hands. The way his body felt under my touch caused me to tremble. I have never experienced such an overpowering feeling before.
“I need to clean it. Then we can work on some commands if you want.” I grab the wipes and antiseptic cleaner.
“So, Jackson, tell me about yourself,” I say, applying a fresh bandage.
“What do you want to know?” I can tell by his tone he dreads questions like this.
“What do you do now? Since you were discharged.” I ask.
“Jobs here and there, I haven’t really found my calling since I got back. I was in the hospital for almost a year and since then I have just done odd jobs,” he says.
“Stand for me please.” I lift his shirt over his head and reveal the blue and purple bruises running along Jackson’s rib cage from where he slammed into the ground.
My fingers run across his skin. “Tell me if this hurts at all,” I say as I gingerly press against his ribs.
“No, it feels fine,” he tells me until my fingers grip his hip. “Ahhh, that is tender,” he says.
“Sorry, Sorry.” I jerk my hands away. My heart dropped at the thought of hurting him again but my fingers itched to touch him once more.
Chapter Five
Jackson
Days have gone by since my fall, and somehow, we have fallen into a rhythm. Evelyn comes around nine-thirty and we work on some commands throughout the day; she spends more time here than I believe is necessary.
“When do you work?” I ask.
“I work Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights. On the nights I work I come here straight from the hospital sometimes.”
“Wait, when do you sleep?” I ask because I have never seen her sleeping.
“I sleep when the hospital is slow, which is rare,” she jokes and turns back to her computer.
“So, can I ask you a question?” I look over to Evie typing feverishly away on her computer.
“I don’t know, can you?” she volleys back with a wink.
“Fine, smart-ass, may I ask you a question?” I couldn’t help but laugh, she is such a nerd.
“You can ask me anything.” She turns from her screen and comes to sit next to me on the couch.
“Why did you pick the name Gracie for her?” I ask, pointing to Gracie who by now has rolled around under her blankets cocooning herself and is now fast asleep.
“My sister’s name was Grace.” Her tone tells me there is a story there, but I don’t want to pry.
“I named her Grace after my sister, her name was Louisa Grace, but she hated her first name with a passion, so she just went by Grace for everything. Grace was in the Army, she specialized in explosives working with the K-9 units in Baghdad, Operation Iraqi Freedom,” she trails off watching Grace still snoring away.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?” I pick at my nails anxiously awaiting her answer.
“She was on her second tour when her unit was sent out to search and clear an abandoned building. It was said the building housed radicals. She and Tex, her German shepherd, just finished clearing it when their building fell under fire. She was hit, Tex pulled her to cover behind an abandoned car until they could be rescued. She was discharged, Tex was reassigned to a new handler, and she just couldn’t recover. One year after she was discharged my sister fell victim to 22 A Day.” Her tone was so filled with pain my heart ached for her, she reaches up and
