Julie Miller
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K-9 DEFENDER
Protectors at K-9 Ranch #2
Copyright ©2024 by Julie Miller
Permission to reproduce text granted by Harlequin Enterprises
Excerpt
A traumatized woman and her service dog draw
wounded detective Joel Standage back into the field.
Present Day. Summer…
“You stupid waitress.” The young man swore and shoved his chair back to avoid the milk dripping off the side of the table.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Mollie Crane righted the glass she’d bumped when she’d been clearing his plate and quickly pulled the towel from the waistband of her apron to mop up the spill before any of the liquid got on the customer. This was more about saving the chair and keeping the floor dry than making sure the grumpy customer wouldn’t get anything on his Arabia Steamboat T-shirt from the tourist shop down the street. Nor would he slip on any wet surface.
She always carried a towel with her now. While she was more than willing to put in the hours, step out of her comfort zone to interact with customers, and ignore her aching feet, it turned out that waitressing wasn’t her best thing. She startled easily, got distracted by anything or anyone unfamiliar to her, and tended to withdraw inside her head when she got stressed. Although she’d been raised in her Granny Lucy Belle’s kitchen and loved to cook, serving food outside the kitchen seemed to be a skill she was still acquiring after ten months on the job. But, it was a job, she had an understanding boss, and she needed both. And when her shift wasn’t a train wreck like this one, coming in a few hours early to help out while her friend and fellow server Corie Taylor went to an OB-GYN appointment to monitor her ninth month of pregnancy, she actually made pretty good tips.
Not that this self-entitled bozo would be leaving her much, if anything, now. “I’ll bring you a fresh glass of milk,” she offered, trying to remember that the customer was always right—even if he was being a jerk about it.
“No, you won’t.” His morning must have been longer than hers to see how easily he got riled over a simple accident. She wasn’t even certain this was her fault. Hadn’t he been pushing his plate aside when she walked up with the glass he’d ordered to go with his pie? “You’ll bring me a new plate of food. Everything here is swimming in milk. It’s ruined.”
Everything? The man had already eaten his patty melt, save for the bottom bun, and all but two of his French fries. And the spill wasn’t anywhere near his chocolate cream pie. Mollie bit down on the sarcastic retorts she wanted to spew at him. Ungrateful man. Scammer. Spoiled rotten. But talking back to anyone, especially a man with a short temper like this one, had been beaten out of her long ago. She might have left August Di Salvo and her nightmarish, dangerous marriage behind, but the rules of survival were too deeply ingrained in her to do anything but apologize again. “I’m sorry if there was a misunderstanding. I thought you were done with your lunch.”
“Darrell, we were almost finished.” His wife or girlfriend, who sat across from him, tried to placate him with a gentle reprimand.
But with a snap of his fingers, the woman fell silent and sank back into her chair.
Oh, God. Not this. Darrell wouldn’t be hurting the woman later for contradicting him in public, would he? Because of Mollie’s mistake? Her body tensed and her pulse thundered in her ears at the potential for violence. She quickly dropped her gaze to the woman’s bare wrists, her neck, and face, looking for any subtle signs that she was being physically abused by her husband. Mollie eased a silent breath through her nose. She didn’t see any obvious bruising or that the woman was holding a wrenched joint tenderly so as not to aggravate a hidden injury. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t verbally abusing her.
“You don’t understand the kind of stress I’m under.” Augie spat the words at her, bending her backward as he tugged roughly on her hair, snapping a few strands and sending pain burning across her scalp. She’d been dressing for dinner with his parents when he walked into her bedroom to announce he was ready to leave. He’d taken one look at her carefully coiffed hair and dragged her into the bathroom to shove her face into the mirror. “I said I liked you blonde. Brown hair makes you look cheap.”
And the bottled bleach color he insisted on didn’t?
“The stylist said I needed to give my hair a break from all the dying and straightening chemicals,” she whispered, even though the truth wouldn’t make a bit of difference to her husband. “My hair is breaking.”
Mollie watched the reflection of his hand down at his side to make sure it stayed there. Although dinner with Edward and Bernadette Di Salvo wouldn’t be a picnic, at least she knew Augie wouldn’t leave any marks on her that his parents could see. Not that they’d chastised their son or supported Mollie in the past when he’d hurt her—if anything had happened, it must have been her fault. They were old money and all about appearances. So, she might be safe from his fists and feet for the time being, but that didn’t stop Augie’s cutting words.
“Your stylist doesn’t have to look at your hair day in and day out. I do.” He finally released her, giving her a chance to ease the crick in her neck. “You’ll be wearing a sack over your head next time I take you to bed.”
An idle threat, since she knew he’d be sleeping with his administrative assistant at the loft apartment he kept her in in downtown Kansas City. But the words still hurt.
“I can’t stand to look at you like this.” Augie literally wiped his hands on a towel, as if her natural curls had contaminated him somehow. “You used to be so smart. I don’t understand why you can’t get simple things like this right.” He tossed the towel at her and pivoted to stride out of the room. “You’ll stay home tonight. I’ll tell Mother and Father you’re ill.”
Mollie sucked in a shallow breath and squeezed her eyes shut to tamp down the urge to run away from her memories and real-life stressors to safety. Wherever that illusion might be. Leaving her husband didn’t mean leaving her fears behind.
But she was smart. She was slowly amassing the tools she needed to do better than simply survive. And beyond her own gumption, the best tool she had was right here in the diner with her.
Forcing her eyes open, Mollie looked across the diner to spot her service dog, Magnus, lying in his bed at the far end of the soda fountain counter. The sleek Belgian Malinois with the permanently flopped-over ear looked like the sharp, muscular dog that was his breed standard. But in the weeks she’d been training with him at Jessica Caldwell’s K-9 Ranch just outside of Kansas City, she’d learned that, despite his athleticism, her boy was more couch potato than intimidating working machine.
“Magnus…?” She mouthed his name through trembling lips. She raised held out two fingers into the air in a silent Come command. He was supposed to watch her, comfort her. Obey her.
Mollie frowned. Great. Magnus was facing the kitchen. He seemed to be happily relaxing, his teeth clamped around the tattered teddy bear he carried everywhere, instead of paying attention to her and hurrying to her side to calm her when she was on the verge of a panic attack, like she was now. She wasn’t exactly sure what it was that Magnus responded to when she was about to lose it. But clearly, her pulse pounding in her ears, the cold, clammy feel to her skin and the short, shallow breathing weren’t it.
Some therapy dog. Shouting for him wouldn’t do any good. Being deaf in one ear, he might not even hear her over the noise of clinking dishes and chatty patrons. And if he did happen to look her way and respond to the visual signals she’d been practicing with him, the former K-9 Corps washout would probably frighten some of the customers when he loped across the diner to reach her.
Mollie dropped her hand to clutch the dripping towel to her chest. When she got her break later this afternoon, she’d be calling Jessica, who ran the K-9 Ranch where Mollie had gotten Magnus, and where they’d gone through several training lessons together. Jessica and she had worked hard to train Magnus to be an alert dog for Mollie. But other than that first morning on the ranch, when the partially deaf tan dog with a black face had trotted up onto the porch and lain across her feet, indicating that he knew she needed some help—even when her own brain was too stressed out to recognize it—Magnus’s responses to Mollie seemed to be hit-or-miss. Jessica said she wasn’t being assertive enough, that Magnus didn’t see her as his pack leader and wasn’t cued in to serving her needs reliably. Mollie imagined the dog saw her as the same weak fool her ex-husband had. That she wasn’t worth his time and energy to take care of, so long as she met his basic needs. In Magnus’s case, that meant having food, his teddy, regular exercise, and a comfy bed to sleep in.
How did she end up so horribly alone again? She had no family, an ex-husband who’d rather see her dead than pay her one dime of alimony, no friends outside of work and dog training, and a washed-up K-9 Corps dog who seemed to think she was his service human instead of him catering to her.
“Hey!”
Now the fingers were snapping at her.
Mollie startled and swung her gaze back to the table in front of her. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Are you going to go put in the order for my lunch again?” the rude customer asked.
“No, she won’t.” Mollie saw the flash of movement between tables a split second before her boss, Melissa Kincaid, stepped up beside her. Although shorter than Mollie’s five feet six, and looking like a fairy princess with her golden hair and delicate features, despite the scar on her face, Melissa was a tough cookie when it came to running her restaurant. “I’ll happily gift you with the slice of pie, but I’m not in the habit of comping meals that have already been eaten and clearly enjoyed. Would you like me to box your pie up to go? I’d be happy to,” Melissa strongly suggested. She turned and smiled at Mollie, indicating she had the disgruntled customer well in hand. “Go on. Take a break. I’m sure Herb will have another order up for you in the window by the time you get back on the floor.”
“I’m sorry.” She mouthed the words to her boss.
“Don’t be,” the older woman reassured her, squeezing her shoulders in a sideways hug before nudging her away from the table. “Take five minutes. Find your calm place. Then get back to work. We’re shorthanded and I really need you.”
“Thank you.” Mollie quickly retreated while Melissa dealt with the demanding customer. At least he hadn’t put his hands on her, she reasoned, knowing she would have had a full-fledged meltdown if he had. The public knew Pearl’s Diner as an eatery with a cute, nostalgic decor that served filling, yummy comfort food and award-winning desserts from early morning until late at night. But Mollie knew the truth behind the scenes—that Pearl’s was a haven for women working to get back on their feet again after surviving a difficult or traumatic situation. Melissa Kincaid’s first husband had been an abuser, and the original Pearl had practically adopted her, giving her a job and a way to start rebuilding her life some fifteen years earlier. Corie Taylor had been a struggling single mother whose ex was in prison. Since inheriting the diner from Pearl, Melissa had paid Pearl’s generosity forward, hiring Corie and allowing her to bring her son to sit in a corner booth when she needed childcare. Both women were now happily married to good men—a KCPD detective and a KCFD firefighter, respectively—and had started new, healthy families of their own.
Mollie had once had a dream like that. But after her grandmother’s death and her subsequent marriage to Augie, she was content to simply be alive and have a job. She might want more from life, but for now, survival was all that mattered. She was grateful to Melissa for giving her an apron after the Di Salvos had blackballed her name and kept her from getting a teaching job—or just about any job involving education. She was even more grateful that the petite, nearly fearless woman looked out for her when it came to rude customers, and that she allowed her to bring Magnus to work with her—even if he was the worst service dog in the history of K-9 companiondom.
Once at the sink behind the soda fountain counter, Mollie rinsed out the milky towel and draped it over the drying rack beneath the sink. Then, mostly out of sight from the customers, she knelt beside her furry partner. “Hey, baby,” she cooed, making sure the dog was aware of her presence before she touched him. At least, he seemed pleased to see her. When he raised his sleek head and focused his dark eyes on her, Mollie smiled, chiding him even as she absorbed the affection he doled out. “How’s my big Magnus? Taking it easy today, are we?” She scrubbed her palms along his muzzle and scratched around his ears when he turned his head into her touch. “You know, you failed rescue dog 101 a few minutes ago. Mama needed you.”
As if he understood her words and wanted to apologize, he tilted his head, turning his good ear toward her and placing one big paw on her knee. He whimpered softly and laid his head in her lap. She continued to stroke the top of his head as she absorbed his body heat and focused on the inhales and exhales in his strong chest, willing his calm, currently devoted presence to seep into her psyche.
“That’s it. Good boy. That’s my Magnus. Mama about had a panic attack with the rude man. She needs some of your attention.” She rewarded him for his supportive behavior now by picking up his teddy bear and playing a gentle game of tug-of-war with him behind the counter. She wondered if he was losing more of his hearing, or if it was her training that wasn’t working out. “We’re going to review our skills tonight. I need you to put your paw on me or your nose in my hand every time I’m on the verge of losing it. You keep Mama with you in the here and now, okay? Don’t let me get lost in the scary places in my head.” She talked softly to him, explaining his job to him as if she were teaching a student in her classroom, and he understood every word she said. “You’re being such a good boy right now. We’re going learn a new word this week—consistency.” Magnus tilted his head, as if he was curious to expand his vocabulary. “Consistent means every, single, time. Not just when you’re in the mood to pay attention. The whole idea of being an alert dog is—”
“Hey, girlie.” Herb Valentino, the perpetually grumpy septuagenarian who ran the kitchen during the daytime shift stuck his head through the order window and waved her back into the kitchen. “Stop talkin’ to that mutt of yours. If you’re just sittin’ around, I can use some help back here gettin’ orders out. I’m swamped.”
Mollie cringed at the cook’s nickname for any female under the age of fifty. But she’d been called a lot worse. And, it was probably better for her to stay busy and focused on something other than thoughts of Augie, violence, and a service dog who’d failed her again. Besides, she felt a sense of comfort when she worked in a kitchen—even if it was beside grumpy Herb instead of her darling late grandmother. She’d learned the old man’s bark was much worse than his bite. She even had a feeling he kind of liked her working beside him, so long as she obeyed his orders and didn’t mess with his recipes. Mollie gave Magnus one last pet and pushed to her feet. “Sure. Melissa only gave me a short break, but I can help get some plates out.”
“Wash your hands, girlie. After pettin’ that mutt, I don’t want you touchin’ any food.”
She was already at the sink, soaping up her hands, by the time he’d finished his warning. She grabbed a towel to dry her hands and pulled on a pair of plastic gloves before moving up beside the tall, lanky man with bushy gray eyebrows and faded tattoos from his time in the Navy several decades earlier. “Reporting for duty. Put me to work.”
He winked at her and did just that. Mollie spent the next several minutes loading condiments onto burgers and putting side dishes onto plates. They worked side by side, with Herb cooking and Mollie finishing plates and setting them in the warming window. She made eye contact with one of the other waitresses. “Order up!”
While the other woman filled her tray with the hot lunches and carried them out to the diners, Mollie swung her gaze over to her own section to see if Melissa was still doing okay covering her tables. She was relieved to see the rude tourist had left the diner. Everyone else at least had their drinks. She’d better get back out there to make sure their food orders were in the queue. But she stopped and stared when she spotted Melissa at the hostess stand near the door, chatting with a man who looked unsettlingly familiar.
Joel Rostovich.
Not quite six feet tall. Muscular as she remembered, yet thinner somehow. Short brown hair with beautiful golden-brown eyes that reminded her of a tiger. He needed a shave, but somehow the beard stubble that shaded his jaw and neck looked intentional—and gave his face an animalistic vibe. He wore a light blue polo shirt that exposed his beefy arms, some intricate tattoos on his forearms that disappeared beneath the sleeves of his shirt, and a mile of tanned skin that was broken up by several pale pink scars that made him look like he was no stranger to violence. He looked like a mixed martial arts fighter who’d come out of the cage on the losing end of things.
He’d worked for her husband.
He’d been kind to her.
But there was a hardness to him now. Even with the length and noise of the restaurant between them muting the actual words, she could hear a snap to his tone. She could see the wariness in his eyes that hadn’t been there two years ago in the middle of the night in her kitchen prison when they’d met. And when he stepped around the hostess stand to follow Melissa to a table, she saw the badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck and the gun holstered to the waist of his khaki pants.
And she saw the cane.
Mollie frowned, a fist squeezing around her heart when she saw him move. He hadn’t used a cane when they’d met two years ago. He hadn’t had that slow, uneven gait, either.
She’d met him here at Pearl’s Diner once again a few months back, during one of her first shifts at the restaurant. No limp then, either. He hadn’t been at one of her tables, but there’d been another rude customer, a uniformed police officer who’d grabbed her, and she’d had a full-blown panic attack. Several customers had tried to come to her aid that night, including Joel. She realized he was a cop for the first time that night because he’d been wearing a standard blue KCPD uniform. She’d been too shocked to acknowledge him, although she had a feeling he recognized her, despite her different hair color, hairstyle, and working-class clothes. At least, he’d sensed something familiar about her.
Mollie gasped when Melissa turned down the long aisle of tables and booths near the front windows. No, no, no. Do not seat him in my section. Do not…
A compactly built man with short black hair streaked with silver at his temples stood and held out a hand to greet Joel. With a nod, if not a smile for the hostess, Joel shook the other man’s hand before sliding into the booth across from him.
Mollie exhaled a worried sigh and wondered if she could get away with spending the rest of the day in the kitchen, instead of waiting tables and interacting with a man from her past. Only, she couldn’t get it out of her head that the man who’d just been seated at her table wasn’t the same man she’d known before. It didn’t have anything to do with him wearing a polo shirt instead of a KCPD uniform or chauffeur’s suit and tie. Softer wasn’t exactly the right word, but that man two years ago had been willing to help if she’d asked.
This man didn’t look like he wanted to help anybody, like he wasn’t even happy to meet the man who appeared to be an old friend for lunch. Like he wouldn’t be happy to run into her again.
“Mollie.” Herb’s gruff reprimand made her jump and pull her gaze back to the faded gray eyes beneath his gray, bushy brows. “You’re fallin’ behind, girlie. Finish these plates and get back out there. Melissa’s giving you the high sign.”
Mollie acknowledged her boss’s wave to get back out on the floor before dropping her gaze to the three plates in front of her, all waiting for fries and a bowl of whatever side they’d ordered. She checked the computer screen beside the window and dished up coleslaw and cottage cheese. She salted the fries and set the plates in the window. “Order up!”
“What’s your mutt up to now?” Herb asked. He nudged his arm against hers and nodded through the pickup window.
Mollie watched Magnus pace behind the counter, his dark eyes focused on her. He scratched at the swinging door that separated the soda fountain area from the kitchen, then raised up on his hind legs, bracing his front paws on the edge of the metal sink and stretching his neck to get his nose closer to her. He repeated the entire process, whining as if he was calling her name.
Now he picked up on her stress?
Yes, baby. Come to Mama before I completely freak out in the middle of the lunch rush.
“His job,” Mollie whispered. “He’s finally doing his job.”
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