Page 7 of Gideon

Chapter three

GIDEON

I practically interrogated the assistant at the shelter, although with the hefty donation I’d just made, a little information wasn’t much to ask in return. Everyone agreed Abby was a sweetheart. She was particularly good at one-on-one scenarios. The staff knew she came right from work and often moved a stressed dog into a different pen to be with her to curl up together away from the public.

I didn’t like that idea and grilled her some more about Abby’s clearly soft heart leading her into unsafe situations and, stammering, the assistant assured me they never left her alone with a new dog.

Slightly mollified, I pressed her for more, but the assistant couldn’t really tell me anything more about Abby, but she did tell me some facts about the shelter. They wereno-kill, which often meant they were bursting at the seams. Only that morning, their manager had accepted the surrender of a dog that had been with its family for nine years, but they’d gotten a new puppy, and the new one hadn’t just been diagnosed with a condition that meant special food and pills.

They’d basically upgraded to a newer model.

I’d learned from my service days that many people were a disappointment, but this type of casual cruelty still shocked me when nothing much else did.

I could accept desperate behavior to survive. I’d been in situations that meant for my team to live someone else had to die. I’d made those sorts of decisions all the time, but it was supposed to be different once we came home, and I tried to ignore the stab of disappointment.

I dismissed the assistant and stood looking into the pen Abby was in. She was clearly asleep, her pale face relaxed. I wanted to kiss all those freckles individually, which reminded me to stock up on good sunscreen. But her pale skin made the shadows under her eyes look like bruises. If ever a Little girl needed a Daddy, it was this one. I just had to make sure she knew she was mine, and that I was hers.

I pondered that while counting down the last ten minutes of her allotted hour. My first and greatest instinct was simply to sweep her up and lock her away, shower her with such care and attention that she would be blissfully happy and never want to leave.

She would never have to work again, obviously, but I had a feeling that wouldn’t make her happy. Maybe instead of actual employment, she could be a volunteer? That was a possible compromise, and the shelter hours would definitely need to be changed. No more Friday evenings whenshe was so tired she could barely stand. I could easily assign her a driver to escort her here a couple of mornings a week, and then maybe add one at the pre-k place, or whatever she called it, if she insisted. I had zero experience with kids.

Unbidden, a memory pushed its way in. I was ten. Mom had already left for a better deal and Dad usually spent the day drunk. Most days, really. Mrs. Canning from next door, who always remembered my birthday, had died the month before, and I knew she had been the one to remind my dad each year.

I’d woken up knowing today wouldn’t be any different and as I’d lain there, I’d determined I wanted something better. And eight years later to the day, I walked into the recruiting office and eventually found my own family amongst sweat-laden, baking-hot sands and gunfire. Dad had died sometime during my first deployment, and I had enough saved by that time to settle the old man’s debts, but hadn’t asked for leave to attend the funeral.

In a fit of complete idiocy, I’d once paid someone to look up my mom. Apparently, she’d remarried and had two kids.

And never looked back.

So neither did I.

I gazed at a woman with such a big heart she found room in it for throwaways, and desperately wanted to be one of them.

I glanced at my phone when it vibrated and saw the reply and initial report from Eric. Abigail Ruth Barkley was twenty-three. Her mother was officially a missing person after the cops had raided a crack house and taken a then three-year-old Abby into care. Her mother had been charged with child endangerment but had skipped bail andhad never been seen since and was presumed dead. Father unknown.

Abby had been in nine different foster placements in the fifteen years until she aged out. I didn’t have the time right then to read all the individual reports and skipped to the health one. She had chronic low blood pressure exacerbated by anxiety. One of her doctors had said that Abby was lucky if her only disruptive brain function was mild ADHD and hypotension from her fetal drug exposure.

I clicked off my phone and had to take a few deep breaths. Anger curled in me like smoke. The medical report had also documented some injuries that one foster mother had insisted had been caused by Abby fainting. The ER doctor had disputed this. Another foster family had insisted that Abby just craved attention, and her anxiety and fainting were just for show.

Well, as far as I was concerned, Abby was going to get more attention than she’d know what to do with.

“Abby?” I smoothed a hand over her red curls. Poppy eyed me balefully, and I didn’t blame her. Two sleepy eyes opened with difficulty, and I knew she was a little disoriented. “It’s time for us to go. You need a soak in my tub, and I’m sure you’re hungry.” She nodded, but then shook her head and I knew she was working out which question to answer. I simplified her struggle by simply picking her up.

She looked surprised and shifted a little in my arms, as if in protest. “Hush baby girl,” I soothed, letting her down at the door so she could walk out…well, with my arm clamped around her, but I imagined she’d spent a lot of years with every dignity being taken from her, and while I knew I would insist on her abiding by my rules, I wasn’t about to make her feel ashamed or less in any way.

“It’s very kind of you, but I’m not really dressed for eating out anywhere,” she said after letting me help her into the car. I laid my hand over both of hers like before and felt her relax a little. “No problem. I’m taking you to my home, as I said, then I’ll send someone to get your clothes—”

“No,” she squeaked out and startled, I glanced over.

“I—no, that’s private,” and with a flash of understanding, I knew she didn’t want a stranger to see her bedroom. It was her sanctuary, and I should have realized.

“Then I will park the car and run in to collect whatever you need. I saw your room last night, baby girl. If there’s somewhere in your room you don’t want me to look, you can trust me not to.” I almost held my breath. I didn’t want her in her apartment, as I knew full well the second we were there, getting her out again would be impossible. “I want you to be able to relax and enjoy your bath, and I’m pretty sure your tummy’s empty.”

I could see she was torn, and I also noted she didn’t seem to protest or find my language choices unusual. Half of me wanted to berate her for being so trusting of a near stranger, and half of me wanted to insist upon it, and I wasn’t sure which was worse. After a moment of indecision, she nodded, and without giving her a chance to argue, I diverted to her apartment. I had the key I’d had made and promised to be quick, but she had to stay in the warm car while I went in.

“But wouldn’t it be just easier if I came in with you?”

“No, Abby. I can be really quick. Is there anything in particular you need?”

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