Chapter 4
Dean
Ivolunteered for escort duty the second I heard "veterinary consultant."
Javi called me pathetic. He's not wrong.
The base gate is quiet this morning, just the usual hum of activity as personnel come and go.
I'm leaning against my truck trying to look casual, like I happen to be here for completely legitimate reasons and not because I've been thinking about green eyes and a sharp tongue for three days straight.
PFC Elijah Brooks is on guard duty, baby-faced and eager as a golden retriever puppy. He keeps glancing over at me with the kind of poorly concealed curiosity that tells me the entire base already knows why I'm here.
"Heard you're showing around the pretty vet, sir," he finally says, unable to contain himself any longer.
"Word travels fast."
"It's a small base, sir." Brooks grins, all nineteen-year-old enthusiasm. "Plus, Captain Mendoza told everyone at chow this morning. Said you've been—and I quote—'a lovesick disaster since Tuesday.'"
I'm going to kill Javi. Slowly.
"Captain Mendoza exaggerates."
"He also said you took the long way home past her clinic. Twice."
"That's a completely normal route."
"It's six blocks out of your way, sir."
"I like the scenery."
Brooks’ grin widens. He opens his mouth—probably to deliver another piece of intel from the Javi Mendoza Gossip Network—but a silver Honda pulls up to the checkpoint, and his attention snaps to professional mode.
Callie.
She's got her window down, handing over her ID with the efficiency of someone who's done this before.
Practical clothes—dark jeans, a fitted jacket over what looks like a clinic polo.
Hair pulled back in a ponytail that makes her look younger than she did in the exam room.
Clipboard on the passenger seat. Zero makeup that I can see, and she doesn't need it.
Brooks processes her credentials with painful thoroughness, asking questions he definitely doesn't need to ask just to keep her at the gate longer. I'm about to intervene when she catches sight of me.
Her expression doesn't change. Not a flicker of recognition, not a hint of warmth.
Cold as a Colorado January.
This is going to be fun.
"Dr. O'Connor." I push off my truck and walk over to the golf cart as she pulls through the gate. "Welcome to Ridgeway."
"Captain Mercer." She steps out of her car, clipboard already in hand. "I wasn't aware pilots doubled as tour guides."
"Special circumstances."
"And what circumstances would those be?"
"My family's in the K9 business. Command thought I might have useful input."
It's not entirely a lie. Top did suggest I attend the consultation. He just didn't suggest I volunteer to personally escort the consultant around base like some kind of uniformed chauffeur.
Callie's eyes narrow slightly, like she's filing that information away for later analysis. "Iron Creek K9. Texas."
"You've heard of it?"
"I did my research." She tucks her pen behind her ear—a gesture so casually competent it does unreasonable things to my pulse. "Your father founded it. Your brothers run it now. They've contracted with military and law enforcement agencies across the Southwest."
"That's... thorough."
"I'm always thorough, Captain."
The way she says my rank makes it sound like an insult. I kind of love it.
"This way, Dr. O'Connor." I gesture toward the K9 facility. "Master Sergeant Porter is waiting for us. He runs the unit."
We drive in silence for approximately thirty seconds before I crack.
"So. How's the clinic? Has it recovered from Ranger's visit?"
"Fine."
"That angry cat still alive?"
"He’s fine."
"Great weather we're having."
"Is small talk a required part of this tour, or can we skip to the actual consultation?"
I bite back a grin. "Just trying to be friendly."
"I'm not here to make friends, Captain. I'm here to assess your kennel facilities and provide recommendations for improvement.
" She doesn't look at me as she sits, her posture purposeful and stiff.
"If you'd prefer to discuss the current square footage per dog or the ventilation system specifications, I'm happy to engage. "
"You know the current square footage?" I pull up to the building and we both climb out of the cart.
"Sixty-four square feet per standard kennel run. Below the recommended minimum for high-drive working dogs. Your HVAC system was installed in 2008 and hasn't been upgraded since, which means you're likely dealing with inadequate air exchange rates in summer months."
I stop walking.
She makes it three more steps before she notices, turning back with an impatient expression. "Problem?"
"You memorized our facility specs?"
"I read the file the county liaison sent over. It wasn't complicated."
"That file was forty pages."
"I'm a fast reader." She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a slightly slow student. "Did you think I'd show up unprepared?"
"No, I just—"
"Because I don't do anything unprepared, Captain. Ever."
The words land with a weight that feels like more than professional pride. There's a story there, buried under all that competence and armor.
I want to know it.
"Noted," I say instead. "No more small talk. Straight to business."
"Thank you."
We resume walking, and I keep my mouth shut for an entire minute. Personal record.
The K9 facility comes into view—a cluster of buildings housing kennels, training areas, and administrative offices.
It's functional but dated, exactly as outdated as Callie's research suggested.
Master Sergeant Devlin Porter is waiting outside the main kennel building, arms crossed, expression as unreadable as always.
Dev and I go back three years. He transferred to Ridgeway around the same time I did, and we bonded over late nights at the Rusty Spur and a shared understanding that the job takes pieces of you whether you want it to or not. He doesn't talk much, but when he does, people listen.
Right now, he's looking at Callie with the assessing gaze of a man who doesn't trust easily and isn't impressed by credentials alone.
"Master Sergeant Porter," I say, "this is Dr. Callie O'Connor. She's the veterinary consultant for the kennel upgrade project."
"Doctor." Dev's nod is curt, professional. "Heard good things about your work with the county program."
"Thank you." Callie extends her hand, and Dev shakes it once, firm and brief. "I've reviewed the initial assessment. I'd like to start with the indoor kennels and work our way out to the training yard."
"Works for me." Dev falls into step beside her, and I find myself trailing behind like an unnecessary accessory.
They're already deep in conversation by the time we enter the first kennel block—ventilation rates, drainage systems, noise reduction materials.
Callie fires off questions with the precision of a drill sergeant, and Dev answers with equal efficiency.
It's like watching two professionals recognize each other as equals in real time.
I should feel left out. Instead, I'm fascinated.
"The rubber flooring here," Callie says, crouching to examine the surface. "How old?"
"Original installation. Twelve years, give or take."
"It's degrading." She runs her fingers along a seam. "See this separation? Bacteria gets trapped in the gaps. You're cleaning regularly, but you're not getting full sanitation."
Dev's jaw tightens. "We've requested replacement twice. Budget keeps getting pushed back."
"I'll flag it as a priority in my report. This isn't cosmetic—it's a health issue." She stands, making a note on her clipboard. "What's your current enrichment protocol?"
They move on, and I trail after them, listening as Callie methodically dismantles every assumption I had about small-town veterinarians.
She knows dogs—not just anatomy and medicine, but behavior, psychology, the specific needs of high-drive working animals.
She asks about training schedules and handler rotations.
She wants to know which dogs show signs of stress, which ones need more mental stimulation, which ones are thriving.
Dev answers everything with the quiet intensity of a man who genuinely cares about his animals. Watching them interact is almost uncomfortable—two people speaking a language I only half understand.
"The outdoor runs," Callie says as we exit the main building. "I noticed in the specs they're concrete. Any plans to add natural ground cover?"
"Not in the current proposal."
"You should consider it. Grass or packed earth, even in a portion of the run. It's better for joint health and provides sensory enrichment." She's already writing as she walks. "I can include recommendations for drainage solutions that would make maintenance manageable."
"That would be useful." Dev shoots me a look I can't quite interpret. "Mercer, you've been quiet."
"Just observing."
"Since when do you observe anything quietly?"
Callie glances back at me, and I catch the ghost of a smirk before she smooths it away.
"I'm capable of silence," I say. "When the situation warrants."
"The situation being a pretty veterinarian who knows more about your family business than you do?"
Thanks, Dev. Really appreciate the support.
Callie's smirk becomes slightly more visible. "The captain's family has an impressive operation. I imagine he learned quite a bit growing up around it."
"I learned enough to know when I'm outmatched." I fall into step beside her as we approach the training yard. "You're good at this."
"I'm good at my job. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
She stops at the fence surrounding the training yard, watching a handler run a German Shepherd through obstacle drills. "Being good at something and caring about it aren't the same thing. Plenty of people are competent without being invested."
"And you're invested."