Backblast by Candace Irving (brene brown rising strong .TXT) 📗

house years earlier. Though Ruger wasn't prone to wandering, she wasn't taking chances. Not with deer season in full swing.

Ruger must've been of like mind, because he didn't disappoint. One short whistle and the dog bounded out from the mixed pine and hardwood forest that enveloped her split-log home, the slight hitch to his otherwise easy gait compliments of the bastard who'd somehow managed to mistake an abandoned Shepherd pup for a mature buck three years ago—then left him for dead.

If the screwed-up, military-turned-civilian cop in her hadn't been obsessed with seeking the source of that report on her private property, Ruger would've bled out behind the spare cabin her father had built.

Kate bent down to scratch the dog's ears as he reached her side. A split second later, Ruger tensed.

Visitors?

It took some moments for the distant crunch of gravel to register with her human ears. Several more passed before visual confirmation arrived in the form of a midnight-blue SUV flitting in and out of the trees that sheltered her drive. As the vehicle drew nearer, she caught the telling silhouette of a dark blond, closely cropped head.

Ruger's low growl echoed in her gut as the Bronco pulled up to the side of the house.

She didn't bother hushing the dog. Ruger had taken the same instant dislike to Grant that her sometime lover had taken to him. Then again, the Shepherd was wary of most human males save her boss and the retired animal doc who'd carefully fished a round from Ruger's weaponized namesake out of his pelvis.

Déjà vu struck as Grant climbed out of the SUV. He waved awkwardly before lowering his hand to push the sleeves of a white fisherman's sweater up his forearms. As Grant started up the stone walk, Kate had the distinct impression that once again she was being forced to mark time as a doctor attempted to salvage something that appeared all but unsalvageable.

Three years ago, it had been her budding relationship with Ruger. Today, it was her tenuous one with Grant.

Even more telling, this time around the urgency and prayers were missing...in her.

Grant took note of Ruger's presence—and fresh growl—and stopped several feet shy of the porch.

"Morning, Kate."

She returned his nod, letting her silence and stubbornness serve in lieu of reciprocating verbal manners.

Grant's sigh should've warmed the nip in the air, but it didn't. "I came to apologize. I never should've pushed it. Hell, I never should've pushed you. But I was worried. You don't talk about it. Not ever. It would be healthier if you did."

Healthier?

What in God's name was healthy about slaughtering nine men and not really remembering it? Eleven if she counted the two bastards she did remember taking out that fateful day. Uncle Sam might've touted her actions across the entire radical Muslim world, but she knew better.

And so should this man.

Kate studied the tattoo on Grant's right forearm. The four-inch inking was mostly black and white, a variation on the standard physician's caduceus. Except that in Grant's insignia, the winged staff with its twin, winding serpents had been replaced with a snake-seducing sword, the blade of which was buried in the still-dripping meat of a blood-red heart.

The former US Army criminal investigator in her who'd survived six tours in hell understood that bastardized tattoo.

The POW who'd survived a mere eleven hours in captivity and taken down an equal number of terrorists to avoid staying longer, really understood it.

So why didn't the bearer of that tattoo understand?

Worse, why did she even care?

She and Grant had been screwing each other for six months and they'd yet to spend an entire night together.

What did that say about this? Them?

"Forgive me?"

Kate stared at Grant's extended hand. Part of her wanted to take it. The rest knew better.

"Please?"

She shook her head. "I don't—"

"But I do. Trust me. It will get better. I'll get better. You've obviously showered, so you and Ruger have finished your morning run. Call Lou. Tell him you'll be in late. Let me take you to breakfast—explain. Please."

He wasn't going to make this easy, was he?

It was clear Grant needed to talk. But was he willing to listen? It wasn't as though they'd gone into this with their eyes closed, let alone clinging to hidden hopes. He might be the older brother to one of her many dead friends, but companionship and sex was all this was supposed to be. For a pair of ex-soldiers condemned to the backwoods of the Deep South by fate and their respective monsters, it should've been enough.

It had been for her. If Grant needed more, it was time to pull the pin on their quasi relationship. Today.

Kate clipped a nod as Grant's hand finally fell down to his side. "Just let me feed Ruger." She should grab a jacket too. It was chilly this morning, even for early November in Arkansas.

Grant's smile was characteristically crooked, and more than a little relieved.

Kate forced herself to ignore the latter.

"Great. I'll wait out here while you grab your keys and lock up."

Given Ruger's still unwelcoming stance, probably for the best.

Kate turned to let the dog through the door. Fortunately, Ruger obeyed. There were times—moods—when he wouldn't. Truth be told, Ruger was a bit like her.

Guilt settled low in her belly as she poured an oversized scoop of kibbles into Ruger's dish and refreshed his water. If the thought of the coming conversation had her passing on the fresh coffee now scenting the kitchen, how was she going to manage eggs? Truth was, she never should've accepted that first invite to dinner. But Grant had just returned to town and they'd started reminiscing about his brother.

God, she still missed Dan.

And so many others. Too many others.

Max, most of all.

Kate pushed the ache aside as she slotted her Glock 9mm into her shoulder holster before grabbing her Braxton PD jacket and badge. As she reached for her phone, it rang.

"Good morning, Lou. I was about to call."

"Mornin' yourself, Kato. But it ain't good."

Damn. She knew that tone. "What happened?