Chapter 6
Dean
Saturday afternoon, almost a week after Ranger’s clinic invasion, the text I wrote took me three drafts. The first was too casual. The second was too formal. The third was just right—or at least that's what I told myself as I hit send and immediately wanted to throw my phone into the sun.
Me: Ranger needs exercise. Clearwater Lake has good trails. Totally professional dog-walking situation. You in?
Her response came twenty minutes later, which was twenty minutes of me staring at my phone like a teenager waiting for prom news.
Callie: For the dog's sake. 4pm.
For the dog's sake. Sure. I'll take it.
Now it's 3:47 and I'm parked at the Clearwater Lake trailhead, watching Callie's silver Honda pull into the lot. Ranger is vibrating in the back seat, nose pressed against the window, tail going like a helicopter rotor.
"Play it cool, man," I tell him. "We're being professional."
He whines. He does not believe me.
Callie steps out of her car in jeans and a lightweight jacket, hair loose around her shoulders instead of pulled back. It's the first time I've seen it down, and my brain short-circuits.
"Hey," I manage, which is not my smoothest opener.
"Hey." She approaches the truck, peering through the window at Ranger. "Someone's excited."
"He loves this place. Lots of smells. Occasional wildlife."
"Wildlife?"
"Squirrels, mostly. The occasional deer." I open the back door and Ranger launches himself out like he's been caged for years instead of minutes. "He's very passionate about squirrels."
"Passionate how?"
"You'll see."
Clearwater Lake spreads out before us as we head down the main trail—fifteen minutes outside Pine Valley, far enough to feel like an escape.
The water catches the late afternoon light, turning everything gold and copper.
Mountains rise in the distance, their reflections rippling across the surface.
A few fishing boats dot the far shore, and families are scattered along the small beach, packing up for the day.
It's the kind of place that makes you forget there's a world beyond the Rockies. The kind of place where problems feel smaller and time moves slower.
"I forget how beautiful it is out here," Callie says, and there's something in her voice—wonder, maybe, or relief.
"You don't come often?"
"Not as much as I should. The clinic keeps me busy." She watches Ranger trot ahead, nose to the ground. "Plus, it's better with a dog. Feels less like exercise and more like an adventure."
"Ranger's available for adventure consultations anytime."
"Is that so?"
"Very reasonable rates. Belly rubs and the occasional treat."
Her mouth quirks. "I'll keep that in mind."
We walk in comfortable silence for a while, following the path along the shore.
The tension that usually crackles between us has softened into something easier.
She's not armored up the way she was at the clinic or on base.
Out here, away from the gossip network and the professional boundaries, she's just.. . Callie.
I like it. A lot.
"So," she says eventually. "Pine Valley. You've been here, what, two years?"
"About that."
"And before?"
"Various bases. Colorado Springs for a while. Germany for two years. A stint in Japan." I kick a pebble off the path. "You move a lot in this job."
"Does it get old? The moving?"
The honest answer sits heavy in my chest. "Sometimes. You get good at making friends fast, but you also get good at leaving them." I glance at her. "What about you? You grew up here?"
"Born and raised. Left for vet school, came back." She pauses. "Well. Came back eventually."
"Eventually?"
"I spent a few years in Denver first. Big practice, lots of resources, good money." Her jaw tightens slightly. "It wasn't for me."
There's more to that story. I can hear it in the spaces between her words. But she doesn't offer, and I don't push.
"Pine Valley's lucky to have you," I say instead. "Mrs. Patterson's cat certainly thinks so."
"Mrs. Patterson's cat is a menace who only comes in for gossip reconnaissance."
"Sounds like someone else I know." I nod toward Ranger, who's investigating a suspicious log with intense focus. "Reconnaissance specialist."
Callie laughs—that surprised sound I'm starting to live for. "Your dog has better manners than Mrs. Patterson's cat."
"Low bar, but I'll take it."
We round a bend, and the trail opens onto a weathered wooden dock stretching out over the water. Fishing equipment is stacked at one end, abandoned for the day. The mountains rise behind us, their peaks still touched with snow even in late spring.
"There's a legend about this lake," I say, leading us onto the dock. The boards creak under our feet. "Supposedly a WWII training plane crashed somewhere out there during exercises. Never recovered."
Callie peers out at the water. "Is that true?"
"That's the story. Old-timers swear they've seen it on clear days—the outline of the fuselage in the deep part." I lean against the railing. "Could be true. Could be small-town mythology. Either way, it makes for good fishing stories."
"Have you ever looked for it?"
"I've thought about it. Get some diving gear, explore the bottom." I shoot her a grin. "Very heroic. Very impressive."
"Very cold," she counters. "That water's snowmelt."
"Details."
"Important details. Like hypothermia."
"I'd brave hypothermia for historical discovery."
"You'd brave hypothermia to show off."
She's not wrong. "Maybe. Would it work?"
"Would what work?"
"The showing off. Would you be impressed?"
She considers this, her expression mock-serious. "I'd be impressed by your commitment to bad decisions."
"I'll take it."
Ranger appears at my side, having finished his log investigation. He sits at perfect attention, staring out at the water with the intensity of a dog who's spotted something very important.
"What's he looking at?" Callie asks.
"Probably nothing. He gets dramatic about—"
That's when I see it. A squirrel. Perched on a rock about thirty feet down the shore, tail twitching, completely unaware of the missile locked onto its location.
"Oh no."
"What?"
"Ranger. Ranger, stay."
He doesn't stay.
One second he's sitting calmly beside me. The next he's a brown blur of fur and determination, lead ripping through my hand as he launches himself off the dock and toward his mortal enemy.
Here's the thing about Belgian Malinois: they're strong. Really strong. Seventy pounds of muscle and drive and an unwavering belief that they can catch anything they chase.
Here's the other thing: I'm an idiot.
Instead of letting go of the lead like a sensible person, I hold on. Some deeply buried instinct tells me I can stop him, that I can plant my feet and be the immovable object to his unstoppable force.
I am not an immovable object.
I am a six-foot-one pilot who just got yanked off a dock by a dog with a vendetta.
The lake is cold.
The lake is very, very cold.
I go under completely—a full-body immersion that shocks the air out of my lungs. When I surface, gasping, Ranger is on the shore, lead trailing behind him, the squirrel long gone. He looks back at me with an expression that clearly says worth it.
From the dock, Callie is laughing.
Not a polite laugh. Not a restrained chuckle. She's doubled over, one hand on the railing for support, the kind of laughter that shakes her whole body and echoes across the water.
"Are you—" She tries to speak, fails, tries again. "Are you okay?"
"Fine." I'm standing in waist-deep water, dignity thoroughly drowned. "Everything's fine."
"You just—" More laughter. "He just—you went straight in—"
"I noticed."
"Your face—"
"Yes, thank you, I'm aware of my face."
She's crying now. Actual tears streaming down her cheeks. She has to sit down on the dock, legs dangling over the edge, because standing is apparently too much effort.
I could be embarrassed. I could be defensive, make excuses, try to salvage some shred of masculine pride.
But watching Callie O'Connor laugh until she can't breathe—because of me, because of my stupid dog and my stupid decision to hold onto the lead—feels like a victory.
I start laughing too.
"He really hates squirrels," I manage, wading toward the shore.
"I see that now."
"I should have warned you."
"You think?"
I drag myself onto the beach, water streaming from every inch of me. My henley is plastered to my chest, my jeans are approximately forty pounds heavier than they were five minutes ago, and my boots make a squelching sound with every step.
Ranger trots over, tail wagging, and shakes himself vigorously. Directly next to me. Adding insult to injury.
"Traitor," I tell him.
He licks my hand. He is not sorry.
Callie's finally gotten control of herself, though her eyes are still bright with tears and her smile hasn't faded. She stands up from the dock and walks toward me, stopping a few feet away.
"You're dripping."
"Astute observation, Doc."
"You should probably wring out your shirt."
"Probably."
She watches as I peel the soaked henley over my head—because she suggested it, and also because it's genuinely uncomfortable, and maybe just slightly because I catch the way her eyes track the movement. The way they linger for half a second before snapping back to my face.
I'm not above using a lake disaster to my advantage.
"Better?" she asks, voice slightly higher than usual.
"Much." I wring out the shirt, water splashing onto the rocks. "Though I think my pride might be permanently waterlogged."
"Your pride will recover."
"Will it though? This is going to haunt me. Javi's going to find out somehow—he always finds out—and I'll never hear the end of it."
"Dragged into a lake by your own dog while trying to impress a woman." Callie tilts her head. "Yeah, that's going to follow you."
"Who said I was trying to impress you?"
"Weren't you?"