Baby, Hold On by Stephanie Bond Read Free Book Online Page A

got an electrical jolt.”
    Mike wiped his hand over his mouth. “I didn’t notice any burns to his fur at the time, but sure, that’s possible. The last day we were there, a bad thunderstorm blew in. That evening Sheridan’s feet needed to be tended to—I thought the wounds were lacerations, but in hindsight, maybe they were burns. It would explain a lot.” He looked contrite. “It’s so simple, why didn’t I think of it?”
    Lacey gave him a flat smile. “You’re accustomed to looking at the big picture. Besides, we don’t know that’s what happened, but it’s a place to start.”
    “You’re right,” he said, his enthusiasm spilling over as they made their way back to the cabin in the early dusk. “First thing tomorrow we can start desensitizing him to noise again…and getting him used to being wet.”
    Mike’s unconscious use of the word we did something to her stomach, and his buoyant mood was contagious, triggering another warning flag.
    This exercise was about making Sheridan whole again—not about making Mike Nichols notice her for the ten minutes he’d be passing through Sweetness.

Chapter Eight
    Mike tried not to stare at Lacey, but he was so accustomed to eating alone, having her sitting across the dinner table enthusiastically eating chicken he’d grilled was a rather serious distraction. Her curly blond hair had mostly come loose from its ponytail holder, and floated around her face. She looked almost ethereal in the low light of the cabin. Under the table Sheridan lay curled on her small feet.
    At the moment, his dog seemed like the smartest male in the room.
    “This tastes so good,” she repeated.
    “You’re easy to please,” he said, then bit his tongue. It seemed as if everything he’d said since they’d returned from their walk came out sounding like a double entendre.
    “Actually, I’ve become very picky about corn bread since I moved here, and this is the best I’ve eaten.” She took another wedge from the pan.
    “Every soldier can make corn bread…and pancakes.”
    Her eyes lit up. “I love pancakes.”
    “I appreciate a woman with an appetite,” he said, then bit his tongue again.
    She laughed, then pushed away her empty plate and patted her mouth daintily with a napkin. “So, educate me—what is Sheridan’s specialty?”
    “He’s a tracker.”
    “Aren’t all SAR dogs trackers?”
    “Generally speaking. But ‘tracker’ is a specific term in the field. Area dogs track a scent over a large zone. Trailing dogs work in a group—they usually pick up where the area dogs leave off. And trackers follow a scent footstep by footstep.”
    “It sounds like the hardest job.”
    “I wouldn’t say the hardest, but definitely the most meticulous. Good trackers are rare.”
    She nodded. “Is Sheridan trained to detect certain scents?”
    “No. To a tracker, a scent is a scent. Give him a sample, and if it’s in the vicinity, he’ll find it. He’s received several commendations for service,” Mike said. He pulled out his cell phone, punched buttons to bring up a photo slideshow and handed it across the table. “These are some of the missions we’ve been on the past couple of years.” She pored over the pictures and asked him questions about each one. He proudly relayed Sheridan’s accomplishments.
    She held up the phone to show the picture of a woman who’d been trapped in a collapsed building for three days before being removed from the rubble. “I saw this on TV—this was you and Sheridan?”
    “Mostly Sheridan,” he assured her. “He’s in high demand. It’s only pure luck he hasn’t been called up lately. I dread that day if he isn’t better.” The knot in his stomach tightened at the mere thought.
    “How did you find Sheridan in the first place?”
    Mike smiled at the memory. “In the pound. Handlers go to animal shelters sometimes looking for good SAR candidates. Some of the traits that make a dog a high-maintenance pet are the same traits