How was he supposed to fix that?
King whined from the back seat and thrust his jumbo head between the front seats, bumping Bear’s shoulder with his wet nose. The dog’s amber eyes watched him with that uncanny understanding that made Bear wonder sometimes if King was more than just a dog.
“I know, buddy.” He rubbed King’s neck. “We should head in and get you dinner.”
King gave a happy rumble in agreement and slathered Bear’s face with his tongue before retreating to the back seat, tail wagging hard enough to rock the truck on its wheels. For King, every problem had a simple solution: belly rubs, walkies, food. If only Bear’s problems could be so easily solved.
He pushed open his door and jumped out. The early evening air carried the bite of approaching night, the western sky already fading from blue to purple. Summer was taking its sweet old time coming to Montana this year, the promise of warmth still weeks away.
“Come on, boy,” Bear called, and King bounded out of the truck, nearly knocking him over in his enthusiasm. The dog immediately dropped into a play bow, paws extended, tail wiggling his whole rear end.
“Not now,” Bear said, though he couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. “Come on. Inside.”
King grumbled but fell into step beside him. The porch steps creaked under Bear’s weight as he climbed them. He paused at the door, listening for sounds of Logan inside, but the house was silent.
His hand fell away from the doorknob. He just… couldn’t go in yet. Couldn’t face another confrontation when the memory of his son’s face—red with anger, eyes bright with tears he refused to cry—was still so fresh. Instead, he sank down onto the porch steps, which groaned ominously. He would have to replace the whole porch sooner rather than later, or risk his boot going right through the wood one of these times.
King flopped down beside him and rested his head heavily on Bear’s thigh. The dog’s eyes watched him, concern evident in every line of his furry face. The unconditional trust there made Bear’s heart squeeze.
“I don’t know why you look at me like I hung the moon, you crazy dog. I’m a mess.”
King huffed as if in agreement and nudged his hand, demanding attention. He obliged, scratching the spot under King’s chin that always made his leg thump.
With his free hand, he reached for his wallet, tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. He flipped it open and slid out the worn photograph he kept there behind his driver’s license.
Logan. Five years old, balanced on Bear’s shoulders, both of them grinning like fools at Amber, who was taking the picture. Logan’s small hands gripped Bear’s hair tightly, his face split by a gap-toothed smile. Bear’s own face looked alien—younger, relaxed, no beard, free of the lines that now bracketed his mouth and eyes. He barely remembered being that man.
It was the last picture taken of them together.
Two months later, Bear had gone into a bar, trying to drink away the nightmares that had chased him home from his last deployment, and everything had changed. He’d gotten into a fight with another patron, and the man had hit his head on the edge of the bar on the way down. Died on the way to the hospital.
Amber had moved Logan to Denver before Bear even went to trial. When he was sentenced to fifteen years for VoluntaryManslaughter, she promised to make sure he never saw his son again. But he’d kept the photo through prison and took it out during the darkest nights and dreamed of the day he could see his son again.
And now Logan was here.
But he wasn’t that tiny boy anymore, the one who had once looked at Bear like he was the center of the universe. Now he was a sullen teenager who looked at Bear as if he were a stranger.
Worse than a stranger. A monster.
“Is this a solo moping sesh, or can I join in?”
Bear’s head snapped up.
Greta stood at the bottom of the porch steps, arms crossed, head tilted to one side. Atlas sat at her heel, the black Lab’s ears perked forward with interest. The porch light caught in her wild strawberry-blonde hair, turning it to copper. She wore her standard uniform—cargo pants, fleece jacket, muddy boots—but something was different. Her eyes. They were softer than he’d ever seen them, lacking their usual challenging edge.
The photo disappeared into his pocket in one quick motion. “Anyone ever tell you not to sneak up on an ex-soldier in the dark?” he growled. He always seemed to growl around her. Couldn’t help it.
“I didn’t sneak. You were just too busy brooding to notice.” She mounted the steps without waiting for an invitation, dropping down beside him. Close enough that her shoulder brushed against his, the heat of her seeping through his flannel shirt.
Atlas trotted up and gave King a polite sniff before settling on the step below them like he’d been invited.
“Rough day?” she asked.
Bear grunted, not trusting himself to form actual words. The scent of her—pine and trail dust and something sweet, maybevanilla—filled his nostrils and made his chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with his son’s anger.
She bumped her shoulder against his. “Wanna try that again with words this time?”
“Not really.”
