Page 15 of Asher

“What are MWDs?”

“Military working dog. Harley trains dogs for veterans, select military operations, and police forces across the country.”

“No wonder he works in a barn.”

“Yup.”

Marlowe inhaled the delicious scents inside Harley’s barn. There was no stink in the air, just the sweet smells of alfalfa, cedar, the rough wooden walls, and the spring breeze filtering in behind her. The entire floor was one wide expanse of smoothly finished timbers that looked like they’d been polished. Or sanded, maybe that was what gave them their soft sheen.

Four rows of kennels lined the area to her left. Harley’s stall, or whatever it was, stood nearest the door. Her feet itched to get up and walk from one end of this wonderful, mammoth building to the other, but cooing overhead sent her gaze up to the rafters. “Pigeons. Look, Asher! There’s a white one. See him? Right there, in the middle.”Oh, to be as free as that pretty bird.

When Asher didn’t respond, Marlowe looked over her shoulder to see what had his attention. She didn’t blame him for being distracted. She was. There was so much to see, and the openness of this building felt almost as good as being outside. She was free and able to breathe. Life was good. Not for long, but today, she had dogs to meet. Maybe hold. She could hardly wait.

Marlowe had never owned a dog or cat. Not that she was getting one today. She wasn’t even sure she had the capacity to takecare of anything besides the women who came and went in her life. They were temporary. Pets weren’t, and her life at home had never been like other girls’ lives. From little on up, she’d had to be the adult in her family, and that usually meant spending days, sometimes weeks, home alone. Scrounging for food in a house bare of normal furniture, like a table and chairs, a nice sofa, not the sagging, smelly thing that took up what should’ve been her living room. When she wasn’t home, Marlowe didn’t have time for pets. She’d been out, roaming the streets and back alleys, looking for her mom. Dragging her home from the bars, when she’d allow it. Sometimes she’d already hooked up with some sleazy guy and insisted he come along, too. Those men always thought they had rights to whatever her mom owned, even her daughter. Marlowe hit the streets when that happened. She had no choice, and she hated her mom for doing that to her, for not caring enough to protect her only kid.

She had no idea where her mom was today, didn’t care if she ever saw her again. She’d had to grow up fast back then. Had to babysit her mother, make sure she ate, slept, bathed, and didn’t drink herself to death. Well, no more. Her mom had her chance to be decent, but she’d wasted Marlowe’s childhood on freaking booze and creepy men. Marlowe was the mom now, and she was everything her mother should’ve been, a woman who’d die to save poor Afghan women and their kids. It was up to her to search them out and get them out of Afghanistan. She owed it to them. No one else was dedicated or brave enough.

Shrugging off the memory of the chaotic US military desertion, Marlow refused to go back and relive one second of her pitiful childhood. Period. End of that damn trip down memory lane.

Asher still hadn’t answered her question, though, and that bugged her. Didn’t he hear what she asked? His head wastilted up and in the right direction, but he wasn’t looking at the pigeons. They’d all flown away. He was just standing there, staring at nothing.

Of course. He needed a dog, and here she was, going on about birds. Since Asher wasn’t in control of the wheelchair, Marlowe reached her one good hand to the top of one wheel and started the chair rolling. She wanted to talk to that yellow puppy. Touch his fur and see if it was as soft and fluffy as it looked. It was cute and friendly. It’d be perfect for Asher.

“Whoa, there, ma’am, where do you think you’re going?” he said, stopping her forward momentum.

“Ma’am? You called me ma’am?” She turned on him, daring him to call her that again. “What do you think I am, an old woman? I’m just twenty-six, smartass.”

He cocked his head. “You’re only twenty-six? Really? That’s all?”

Now he was being mean. “Yes, that’s all. Are you deaf or just plain stupid?”

“No, no, I… I just thought… I mean, you—”

“Ha! You do think I’m old, don’t you? You think I’m an old hag. What an asshole. Who the fuck cares what you think?” In a fit of temper, she tore the stupid sling off and tossed it aside. Not smart. The instant it went flying, her arm ached, but she didn’t care. It was past time to leave this place. “Thanks for the fresh air, but I’ve had enough fun for one gawddamned day. Take me back to my room. Right now.”

Asher dropped to one knee beside the chair. “Marlowe, stop. Please. I had no idea how old you were, and I’m sorry if I offended you.”

“I don’t need your help. I don’t need anybody’s help.”

“It’s just that, honey—”

“Stop calling me that! You don’t get to call me that. Get away. I can make it back to my room on my own.”

“No, I’ll take you, but I need you to know—”

“Fuck you!” Marlowe pushed on that wheel, but nothing happened, not with his big hand holding her in place. “Let go before I—”

“Really?” he asked, as calm as ever. “That’s how you’re going to play this? I save your life, and you get pissed because I call you ma’am? You seem determined to take everything wrong. Ma’am is a simple sign of respect where I come from. There are a lot of other things I could’ve called you, but I didn’t and I wouldn’t. I respect the hell out of you, and I will most certainly call you ma’am and honey anytime I want. Because you mean something to me. You have the heart of a lioness,honey.”

He’d said that last word to underscore how stupid she was acting, but damn. That word,honey,meant a lot to Marlowe. It was a nice word, a kind word. It was his word. Her gaze hit the polished floor. She couldn’t believe how easily she’d gone ballistic and nasty. Over nothing. What was wrong with her? She had no idea what to say next or how to apologize, because—

Marlowe had never apologized before, not to anyone, not if she wanted to live. Life on Chicago’s streets was hard, harder for girls, and harder yet for girls who didn’t know how to stand up for themselves and fight back. But life in Afghanistan was murder, literally, for unescorted American women. Over there, she’d had to charge hard every single day and fight for every little scrap of food and—

Maybe that was a good place to start, admitting she’d lost her temper. Still looking at the floor but not seeing it, she begrudgingly muttered, “I overreacted. You’re right and I’m sorry. I just…” Shit, this was hard. “I just—”

“You’re just used to doing everything alone, and no one having your back, I get it. What I don’t get is why you were in Afghanistan by yourself. You had no support team to fall back on, did you?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, no. But I’m okay with that. I work better alone.”

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