Chapter 10
Dean
"Again," I bark at Ranger.
He gives me a look that clearly says we've done this eight times already, but he's a good dog.
He runs the obstacle course again—weaving through poles, jumping barriers, hitting every mark with precision that would be impressive if I wasn't currently using his training as a substitute for punching something.
The Colorado sun beats down on the training yard. My flight suit is unzipped to my waist, T-shirt soaked through with sweat. Ranger finishes the course and sits at my feet, tongue lolling, waiting for praise I can't quite manage.
"Good," I mutter. "Again."
"Mercer."
The voice cuts across the yard like a command. Sergeant Major Alan "Top" Grady stands at the fence line, arms crossed over his barrel chest, weathered face set in an expression I've learned to recognize: You're about to get your ass handed to you.
"Sir," I acknowledge.
"That's enough."
"We're just—"
"That's enough," he repeats, steel in every syllable. "Whatever's eating you, sort it out before you hurt my dog."
My dog. Like Ranger belongs to Top personally. Like I'm just borrowing him and doing a piss-poor job of it.
He's not wrong.
Ranger heels at my signal as I cross the yard. Top doesn't move, just watches me approach with those eyes that have seen three decades of soldiers trying to hide their problems.
"You going to talk about it?" he asks.
"Not particularly."
"Don't care if you want to. Asked if you're going to." He jerks his head toward the bench in the shade. "Sit."
I sit. Just like Ranger. Same tone, same expectation of immediate compliance. At least Top doesn't make me shake his hand first. Ranger flops at my feet with a grateful sigh, clearly relieved to be done with whatever personal hell I was putting him through.
Top settles beside me, pulling a water bottle from his cargo pocket and tossing it my way. I catch it, crack it open, drain half in one go. Pour the rest into my palm for Ranger, who laps it up gratefully.
We sit in silence for a solid minute. It's a Top Grady specialty—letting silence do the heavy lifting until you break down and fill it.
"I asked someone to move with me," I finally say. "To Texas. To Iron Creek."
"The vet?"
Of course he knows. Everyone on this base knows everything. It's like living in a very regimented small town where the gossip network has security clearance.
"Yeah."
"She say no?"
"She said I assumed. Made plans without asking her first. Talked to my brother about her career before I talked to her about it." The words taste bitter. "She said no."
Top makes a noncommittal sound. "And you're pissed."
"I'm frustrated."
"You're pissed." He leans back against the bench, tilting his face toward the sun. "Because you thought you had it all figured out. Laid it out perfect. And she didn't fall in line."
"That's not—" I stop. Because that's exactly what I thought. I had a plan. A good plan. She should have seen that. "It's a great opportunity. For both of us."
"Is it?"
"Yes." I crush the empty water bottle in my fist. "Iron Creek K9 is expanding. Two new huge contracts. They need someone who knows working dogs, behavioral protocols, the whole operation. She's perfect for it."
"That what she wants?"
"She loves that kind of work."
"That's not what I asked." Top turns to look at me, and there's something in his expression that makes me feel like a lieutenant getting debriefed. "I asked if that's what she wants."
My mouth opens. Closes. I try again. "I don't know."
"Did you ask?"
"I told her about the opportunity—"
"That's not asking, Mercer. That's presenting." He shifts on the bench. "Let me ask you something. You asking her to follow you, or asking to build something together?"
The question hits like a punch.
"I—" The words tangle. "Both?"
"Can't be both. Either you're inviting her into a life you've already designed, or you're asking her to design one with you." Top pulls another water bottle from his pocket, cracks it open. "Which is it?"
Ranger lifts his head, looking between us like he's following the conversation.
"My brother asked if she'd be interested in working with Iron Creek," I say slowly. "I thought it would be perfect. She'd have resources, challenging cases, a whole K9 operation to help build—"
"Your brother's operation."
"Well, yeah, but—"
"In your hometown."
"It's a great town."
"I'm sure it is." Top takes a long drink. "But it's your town, Mercer. Your family. Your plan. Where's the part where it's hers?"
My chest goes tight.
"I offered her everything," I say, and my voice has an edge I can't quite hide. "A fresh start. Better resources than she has in Pine Valley. The chance to do real work instead of just—"
"Instead of just what?" Top's voice sharpens. "Instead of what she built herself? Instead of the practice she's been running? Instead of the life she chose?"
"That's not what I meant."
"Maybe not. But I bet that's what she heard." He sets down the water bottle. "You know what my mistake was? Back in my twenties, fresh outta basic, thought I had the world figured out. Met a girl. Good girl. Smart. Had her own dreams."
I stay quiet. Top doesn't share personal stories often.
"I was headed for deployment," he continues.
"Asked her to wait for me. Told her we'd figure it out when I got back.
She asked what we'd be figuring out—where we'd live, what she'd do, how we'd build a life together.
I said we'd cross that bridge when we came to it.
Focus on the mission first." He's quiet for a moment.
"She said no. Married someone else six months later. "
"Top—"
"I'm not telling you for sympathy. I'm telling you because I spent thirty years in this uniform thinking duty meant the service.
Took me too damn long to learn—duty isn't just the uniform.
Sometimes it's choosing who you come home to.
" He looks at me. "You asking that girl to wait while you figure out your life?
Or you asking her to build one together? "
My throat goes tight. "I told her about Texas. About the job."
"Did you ask her about Texas?"
"I—" The words stick. "I told her it would be perfect. That she'd have resources, better opportunities—"
"Better than what she's got now?" Top's eyebrow rises. "You tell her what she built in Pine Valley isn't good enough?"
"No. I mean—I didn't mean it like that." I scrub a hand over my face. "I just wanted her to see the potential. What we could build together."
"What you could build, Mercer. On your family's land. In your hometown. With your brother's business." He leans forward. "Where's the part where you asked what she wanted to build?"
The question lands like a physical blow.
I never asked.
I talked to Jake first. Made plans. Showed up at her door with the whole future mapped out and expected her to fall in line.
"I screwed up," I say quietly.
"Probably." Top stands, stretching. "Question is, what are you gonna do about it?"
"Haven't figured that out yet."
"Well, you've got until oh-eight-hundred Thursday to figure it out.”
He gives me a pointed look. "Called in a favor.
Got you an extension on those papers. Don't waste it.
" He whistles for Ranger, who immediately abandons me for a superior officer.
Traitor. "And Mercer? Next time you use my dog to work out your relationship problems, you're running the obstacle course yourself. In full gear. At oh-five-hundred."
"Yes, sir."
He walks away, Ranger trotting happily at his side, leaving me alone on a bench in the middle of a training yard with the sudden, crushing realization that I'm an idiot.
Maggie's Place is half-empty when I walk in two hours later. The dinner rush is over, leaving behind the smell of grease and coffee and the kind of comfortable worn-in atmosphere that makes this place feel like home.
Maggie spots me immediately. She's wiping down the counter, red hair pulled back, apron stained with what looks like ketchup and possibly gravy. Her expression shifts when she sees me—assessing, knowing, vaguely maternal and slightly terrifying.
"Flyboy," she says. Not unkindly, but not warmly either.
"Maggie."
"Booth or counter?"
"Booth."
She gestures to my usual spot—red leather, chrome trim, a view of the door. I slide in, and she appears thirty seconds later with a coffee pot and a mug.
"You mess up with my girl?" she asks, pouring.
No preamble. No small talk. Just Maggie O'Rourke cutting straight to the point.
"Probably," I admit.
"Probably." She sets down the pot, slides into the booth across from me. The apron comes off, folded precisely and set beside her. "That's a yes, Flyboy. When a man says 'probably,' he means 'definitely but I don't want to admit how bad.'"
"I asked her to move to Texas with me."
"I heard." Of course she heard. The Pine Valley gossip network is faster than base intel. "Heard you talked to your brother first."
I wince. "It wasn't like that."
"What was it like?"
"I wanted to make sure there was actually an opportunity before I got her hopes up—"
"Her hopes?" Maggie's eyebrows rise. "Or yours?"
I take a long drink of coffee. It's hot enough to burn and I welcome it.
"You know her story?" Maggie asks after a moment.
"Tyler."
"Tyler." She says the name like it tastes bad. "Wanted her to follow him to Virginia. Told her it would be an adventure, that they'd figure it out together. Said all the right things."
"She said no."
"She said she couldn't just drop everything and follow him across the country. That her career mattered too. That she had plans." Maggie drums her fingers on the table. "He left. Two days later. Didn't call. Didn't write. Just gone."
My stomach drops.
"Two days later, he stopped calling," Maggie continues. "Stopped writing. Just ghosted her completely. Turns out 'figure it out together' meant 'do what I want or we're done.'"
"Shit."