Page 22 of Montana's Bravest

Relieved to put the creek and its memories behind her, Cassidy springs from the driver’s seat and flings the van door open with a flourish.

It’s not just the kegs marked ‘Fallen Angel’ that catch my eye, but the sleek kegerator behind them. “No way!”

“Figured this might come in handy,” she says proudly, “better than bottles or cans.”

“Cassidy!” Charlie greets her.

“Hey!” She beams, her arms opening for a hug that comes naturally.

It doesn’t take long for a crowd to form around her, and not just for the craft beer she’s brought. Most of my guests know her already. As the bar manager of a local hotspot, I should have expected it. I try to swallow down the jealousy, taking in the scene as she greets each person warmly.

Once the kegs are settled, I find her in the living room deep in conversation with Mark, who’s just introduced Maximus.

“He remembers you,” I say as my dog, eager as ever, starts jumping up at her arrival. “Maximus, down!”

“You’re a bad influence on your dog,” Mark chides.

Her laughter is light, remaining neutral on the subject of dog discipline. Then she pivots to the kitchen. “I’ll go and set up the beer station,” she decides.

“I’ll give you a hand,” Charlie offers.

Mark sends him a subtle shake of the head. “Sam’s got this.”

With a nod, Charlie steps back, and I escort Cassidy into the kitchen, with Maximus in tow.

The dog watches her closely as she unwraps the kegerator.

“So, you were with Maximus when he got injured?” she queries.

“No, I adopted him after his handler... didn’t make it back. For the family, the dog was a constant reminder of his death, so they had to let Max go. I guess we all grieve differently.”

Cass angles her face away, kneeling behind Maximus. Everyone would be sad hearing about a fallen soldier, but her eyes are holding more than just a passing empathy. I have experienced losses in combat, and I’m certain she has lived the grief.

I move to clear away the bubble wrap, giving her a moment with Maximus. When I return, she’s still there, hand on his fur.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to make you sad. Maximus is well taken care of,” I say. “Here, give him this treat and he’ll love you forever. Well, I guess he loves you already.”

Cass gives the treat and Max attempts to give her a high-five, only to collapse on her. Letting out a laugh, she hugs Maximus. Max does that all the time, and I thought the dog is clumsy, forgetting that he’s missing a paw. Now I wonder, could it be intentional on Max’s part, this ploy for affection?

“He’s a Staff Sergeant, did you say?”

“Yeah. Ever since the injury we named him Staff Sergeant Tri-Pawed Maximus. He responds to either Tri-pawed, Maximus, or Max.”

My dog ignores me. He isn’t even protesting the first name I mentioned.

“Tripod… as in P-A-W-E-D?” she calls while rubbing Maximus’ chest.

“Yeah,” I reply as Max just sits there, basking in the attention. “He’s a veteran, but he still thinks he’s on active duty.”

Cassidy then shifts the conversation to us, her tone casual but curious. “The Forbes rescue, that was you and Mark?”

I’ve been mad at the media for sensationalizing the rescue, and I’ve had about enough answering questions about it. But the soothing voice of Cassidy Winter opens up a part of me that I haven’t explored before—that it’s actually okay for people to acknowledge what I’d done. Especially when it comes from her, it holds a significance I can’t ignore.

“Yeah, that was us,” I admit.

She nods as her attention returns to the kegerator. “You shielded the kid, didn’t you?” she says, sliding the conversion kit into place.

“Tried to. I did everything I could to keep him safe and minimize the trauma. Children absorb more than we realize.”

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