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He’d woken once, jerking with a start at the sound of a car alarm in the parking lot, panic gripping his lungs until he finally recalled where he was, and he drifted in and out of sleep until his phone alarm went off. He’d barely gotten dressed when Tarun was at his door.
“Wakey-wakey,” his buddy said, giving his outfit of jeans, a T-shirt, and Bills ball cap a once-over as he walked in. “You ready to roll? I picked us up some bagels. Because no way in hell am I drinking some protein drink of yours this morning.”
“Ready.” Ryker followed him out to the truck, a smile turning the corners of his mouth as he thought that Bryce would absolutely agree with his Marine buddy. He flipped his phone over to confirm—no further texts from Bryce. No news meant good news, right?
“Your mom called me this morning demanding to know where we were,” Tarun said as Ryker started the car and plugged in the directions for the Paws of War training center, and he was so surprised he choked on his bite of bagel. Tarun laughed, clapping him on the back. “You didn’t warn me that this mission was covert, but I covered for your ass, anyway. I told her we were in Long Island.”
Ryker waited until he’d pulled out and was on his way to the training center before asking, “Did you tell her why?”
Tarun shrugged. “I always stay as close to the truth as possible. I said we were checking out some therapy options. Today is the big day. When are you going to tell your family? And Bryce? Trust me, man. Texting and voicemails are relationship napalm. If this woman means something to you—and by the way you were talking about her on the way up here, she clearly does—you need to call her. Tell her what’s going on. That way, nothing is lost in translation.”
Ryker nodded. “You’re right. I’ll try her at lunch—she should be in Niagara Falls by that time and maybe I can catch her before she goes in to work. At that point, maybe I’ll know if the dog…likes me, or whatever.”
Tarun rolled his eyes. “When did you get so dramatic? It’s going to be fine. I’ll stick around to see your new mate, then I have a car coming to take me to the airport and back to work.”
Ryker put his truck in park, noting that the place was jammed with cars, vets, men and women in civilian clothes, and people holding leashes with dogs everywhere. “Thanks for coming with me. Putting up with my bullshit.”
“I’m honored to be here for this, man.” Tarun grabbed his duffel and opened the door. “Let’s go meet your match.”
Ryker squared his shoulders and entered the facility behind the main offices. Tarun gave him a salute as he went to sit on the metal bleachers they had set up for family and friends to watch the ownership ceremony, while Ryker joined the other vets who’d been asked to sit in a line of chairs in the middle of the vast space. He sat, gazing at the opposite wall, where a bunch of men and women stood with dogs on leashes whose harnesses were exactly alike: blue with white stars and red piping along the sides, with the words “Service Dog—Do Not Pet” emblazoned on the harness as well as on the leashes themselves.
There were seven dogs, some breeds recognizable and some not so much. He saw a muscular German shepherd, two dogs that had the same blocky, massive head as a Rottweiler, a furry golden retriever, two others that appeared to be some combination of Labrador, and one squatty little fellow who looked like he had corgi blood.
Ryker watched as the dogs sniffed either each other or the floor, or nosed up against their handler. All except one. The golden retriever. She sat still as a statue at the feet of a thin, middle-aged man, completely calm but alert. Unlike the other dogs, whose trainers had their leashes in hand, the golden held the end of the leash in her own mouth, as if preparing to walk herself to the next destination.
Ryker grinned. He did love an independent woman who knew her own mind. He gazed at the dog, and he swore she met his eyes. Her golden coloring was lighter in a triangular shape around her dark eyes, like blond eyebrows, and when combined with her mouth open in that retriever smile, it created the impression that she was gazing at him with delight.
“What a sweetheart you are,” he said under his breath.
Although it was impossible the golden heard him from this distance, her tail wagged, thwapping against the feet of her handler.
Breaking eye contact, Ryker made himself study the other dogs. It wouldn’t do to fall in love with some dog that wasn’t meant to be his. The shepherd looked like a tough dog who’d be thrilled to join him on any run, and he could see any of the Labs or Rotty mixes fitting right in with the dirty hands, grease, and grime of his garage. Even the corgi guy, with his squatty little legs, would be easy to love, although he’d likely have to lift him in and out of his truck.
He half listened as the owner of Paws of War, a tall woman with her hair in a clip, spoke about the organization, touting all the facts he’d read about before applying, and were reiterated in yesterday’s orientation.
“About one million shelter animals are put down every year, and it’s estimated that almost three hundred thousand vets suffer from PTSD. While the math is in our favor, the funds and outreach are not,” she said, ending her fundraising appeal with a gesture to the dogs at the side of the gymnasium-like space and the vets sitting in a line in the middle. “While service dogs are a holistic approach and not a cure-all, we know from experience that these honorable men and women will benefit from this relationship immediately, as will these dogs. Without further ado, let’s meet the pairs who will be getting a new leash on life.”
The woman handed the microphone over to the head trainer, a man named Robert, who read from a series of white index cards.
“First up, we have Rory Kline, a ten-year Navy vet who has been matched with Javelin, a German shepherd rescued from a kill shelter in North Carolina.”
The crowd cheered as the man next to Ryker leaped up, meeting Javelin halfway across the floor, catching the dog as he jumped up into his arms, a kissing, wriggling mass of fur. Ryker’s hands tightened at his knees as the next name was called, and the next, with both Rottweiler mixes going to soldiers Ryker had met yesterday in training. The medically retired Navy woman got one of the Lab mixes—a bounding ball of energy named Hero—and the wheelchair-bound firefighter got the other Lab, named Lana.
It was down to the corgi and the golden. Besides Ryker, there was only one human left unmatched—a smiling Marine named Amal, whom he and Tarun had grabbed dinner with last night. Amal was already down on one knee, ready to receive whichever dog came his way.
Ryker felt like he’d been turned to stone as he heard Robert say his name on the microphone.
“Next up, we have Ryker Matthews, a highly decorated Marine veteran, who will be going home with Six, a golden retriever—one of six in her litter—rescued from a storm drain after a tornado in Alabama.”
The golden. Six. He had matched with the one he’d accidentally fallen in love with already.
Ryker knew he should stand. Or kneel. Or run over to meet the dog, like all the others were doing. But he felt glued to his chair, frozen with a deadly combination of joy and fear as the trainer behind Six said something and the golden stood. She stepped over the concrete floor, the rubberized handle of her leash firmly in her jaws, her dark-brown eyes locked on his as she approached. She never even glanced at Amal as she stepped around him to Ryker.
Dropping her leash at his feet, the dog put her paw on Ryker’s right knee, as if sensing that his left knee was sore above his prosthetic.
“This is Six,” her trainer said. “The shelter named her that because she was the sixth one pulled out of the drain. You can change it if you want.”
“Negative. The name is perfect,” Ryker breathed. The dog immediately licked his hand, tail wagging fiercely, and it was as if her motion set his gears back into alignment. Ryker lifted his hands off his knees, burying them in her soft, golden fur. He lowered his head to hers, scratching and petting behind her ears. “In the Marines, if someone has your six, that means they’re watching out for you. Watching your back. She is…my Six.”
