The years had taken a toll. Damage had been done not only by the elements but by the teenagers that had come here to drink, dope, and screw. I saw evidence of all three-bottles and cans, the stubs of cigs and joints, several used condoms-scattered everywhere.

What I found in the living room was worse. The other had been kids being kids. a.s.shole kids, but still kids. This ...

I stared at the charred remains.

This was evil.

Owen waited for Becca to disappear into the house.

Though she'd probably seen worse, or at least seen similar, he didn't want to let her go inside and face that alone. But more than that, he didn't want her to see him walk.

Childish. Foolish. Selfish. He silently berated himself with every ish he could think of as he gimped in her wake. He could have added gimpish, but he didn't think it was a word.

Should be.

Shrapnel had made a mess of his leg. Tendons were damaged, nerves too. The break in his femur had been ugly. The doctors had said he wouldn't be able to walk again. He'd refused to believe them, and he'd been right.

They'd also said he wouldn't be able to return to active duty. He refused to believe that either. Owen had nothing else. He was good at nothing but the job he'd learned in the Marines. If he wasn't Sergeant McAllister, who was he?

Reggie yipped. Owen had stopped walking to rub his thigh. The dog, which had healed much faster than Owen had, stood at the bottom of the listing porch steps.

"I'm okay," he said, as if Reggie could understand. Sometimes he swore the dog could.

He'd certainly understood when Owen had shouted, "Run," that day Reggie had found the turned-up earth at the same time Owen had seen the boy with the cell phone.

Which was why Reggie was in better shape than he was.

The kid had activated the IED a bit too soon, which meant that Owen and Reggie were alive and not dead after the big- "Kaboom," Owen said.

The dog climbed the steps. Now he was gimping too. Owen sat on the top step, patted the area next to him. "Sitz."

Owen ran his palm over the animal's injuries, masked now by fur, but still there. When he reached the worst one, Reggie flinched.

Owen moved the hair away from the scar. No blood at least. This far out, there shouldn't be.

"Looks like you've bought yourself an aspirin in your kibble, pal. Shouldn't have been rolling in the dirt with a wolf today. Probably not any day with a wolf."

Speaking of ... The wolf had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Where had it gone? Why had it gone? Why had it come in the first place? Becca seemed to know the animal, which wasn't surprising. She'd always had a strange affinity for them.

When they were children, she would entertain Owen with tales of "what the bunny said," and "what the fox thought." Forest creatures would walk up and eat out of her hand. The first time his mom had seen them surrounded by racc.o.o.ns and opossums and squirrels, she'd flipped out. Started screaming about rabies, scared all the little beasties away.

He'd been six years old and already adept at knowing when he could calm her down and when he needed to call the EMTs. He avoided the latter as much as possible. Because if his mom went to the mental health facility, Owen went to foster care-at least until they'd moved here. Once he and Becca became friends, the Carstairs allowed him to stay with them while his mom "rested."

He owed that family more than he could ever repay. Another reason he had left when he had.

Reggie's tongue lolled. He appeared to be smiling. Owen rubbed behind the dog's ears. "You liked tussling with that wolf, didn't you?"

Reggie barked.

Owen had heard the Belgian Malinois described as the "sugar-hyped kid" of the dog world, and that could be true when they weren't handled correctly. A Belgian did not make a good pet, unless you had a huge amount of land and all day to spend throwing sticks. Without constant activity, they got into trouble. Left alone and bored they would destroy anything, everything, just for something to do.

But that drive to go, go, and keep going was what made them excellent bomb-sniffing dogs. Belgians didn't stop until they found something; they weren't afraid of much, and most didn't get twitchy when bullets blazed all around them. Owen thought Reggie kind of liked it.

"Steh." Reggie stood, but he didn't move until Owen showed him the red rubber ball that was his reward, then gave the forward command, "Voran."

Reggie nosed open the door, which Becca had left ajar. Owen followed at a slower pace, using the railing, the wall, the door for balance. He should probably use a cane. He had one, but he hadn't been able to make himself hold on to it for more than a minute, let alone walk with it.

He'd been on a plane since yesterday. Exhaustion, combined with more walking and more sitting than usual, then driving from Minneapolis, as well as the digging, had made Owen shakier than he liked.

What he should do was take a pain pill, then sink into a warm bath and fall into a fluffy bed. However, thanks to his mother's drug issues, he didn't take pain pills. He doubted the water heater worked any better now than it had when he lived here. Considering the electricity was off, along with the water, it wouldn't matter if it did. The mattresses were as trashed as the rest of the furniture, and even when they hadn't been they weren't fluffy.

He'd grit his teeth and get along. One of the first things he'd learned upon joining the Marines.

Inside there was no sign of Reggie. As Owen had mentioned kibble, he'd thought the dog would be waiting outside the still-closed kitchen door to the right. When he'd gone out to dig the grave, he'd put Reggie behind it, not wanting him to mess with the disgusting scene in the living room.

Reggie was a well-trained dog, but he was a dog, and sometimes he grabbed things he wasn't supposed to-like a terrorist-and dragged them around. While Owen often enjoyed that little mistake, having Reggie ingest charcoal pet remains wouldn't be at all amusing. So he'd confined him in the kitchen. That the windows were broken wide open had escaped him until the dog vaulted through one.

Becca spoke in the living room. Was she talking to Reggie or herself? Owen had told the dog to voran, which was a command to go forward, in working-dog-speak to do what he was supposed to do. While Reggie was usually searching for explosives, he might also find and detain insurgents if he came across one. Though Becca was neither, she was standing in front of a scene that had to smell pretty nifty to a dog.

Owen swallowed. But not to him.

"I know," she murmured, and Owen frowned. Had he said that out loud?

He entered the living room as she smoothed her palm over Reggie's head. The dog's tail thumped once. She'd been talking to him. Nothing new. When they were kids she'd believed that dogs talked back.

Becca eyed the display atop the old table that someone had dragged in from the kitchen, which gave Owen a chance to move closer un.o.bserved and take a seat on the arm of the water-stained couch. Reggie hurried over and sat, waiting for his beloved red ball.

Owen handed it over, and, enthralled, Reggie dropped it, chased it, chewed it. The dog would do anything for the red ball, which meant Owen kept the thing in his pocket 24/7-and carried a spare in his duffel.

"The chief had reports of three missing cats, a dog, and a rabbit," she said. "There's more than that here."

"Some people must have figured their pets ran off or got plucked by a wolf." Becca cast him a narrow glance, and Owen held up his hands in surrender. "I didn't say it was your wolf."

"Not mine."

"A wolf, coyote, fox, bear." He paused. "Do bears eat meat?"

"Yes. Though they don't digest it well. Which is why most of their diet is plants and berries."

"They still might s.n.a.t.c.h a Pekinese that's wandered into the woods."

"No 'might' about it," she agreed.

"But if an owner lives close to the forest and Fluffy disappears, most of them wouldn't report it to the police. The cops aren't going to arrest Yogi."

"As Yogi is smarter than the average bear, he'd probably be above stealing then eating Fluffy, but I take your meaning."

Owen smiled. Even before he'd fallen in love with her, he'd liked her so d.a.m.n much. He still did.

Be honest, dumba.s.s.

He still loved her. He always would.

Becca pulled out her cell phone, looked at the display, cursed, and put it back in the pocket of her track pants. "I need to call Chief Deb."

"Chiefdub?"

"Deb. Debbie Waldentrout is the police chief now."

"Debbie Waldentrout is three feet tall." The idea of her in a police chief's uniform was somewhat cartoonish.

"Is not." Becca headed for the door.

As she went past, Owen took her elbow and she stilled. He should have let her go, especially when she shivered. Instead he rubbed his thumb over her ulna, and she shivered some more. Because he was sitting on the edge of the couch and she was standing, his gaze was level with her chest, which rose and fell so quickly he was captivated.

That scent of lemons overshadowed the scent of death, and Owen breathed in, out, and in again. From the moment he'd met her, she'd cleansed him, healed him, elevated him. He'd become so much more while he'd been with her. He'd become so much more because of her. She had loved him. She had saved him. He'd always wanted to tell her that, but he'd never been quite sure how.

What he saw in her gaze made Owen tighten his fingers-to push her away, or pull her closer. He never knew, because she leaned over-so quick he had time to do nothing but say her name. A whisper. A plea. A prayer. And then she was kissing him; he was kissing her.

The years fell away. It was their first kiss. Their last.

That first one had been tentative-soft, a little afraid, yet so full of hope. The last had been shocked, a little tearful, and full of despair. This one tasted of both. How strange. What did she hope for? What did she fear? Why did she despair?

Questions for another time, right now he delved, taking her mouth, tasting her teeth, wishing, hoping, praying for more, even though he knew it could never be. For so many reasons ...

Suddenly she was gone. His mouth followed hers in retreat, seeking those lips he still dreamed of. His arms reached; his empty fingers closed on nothing. He started to stand. The pain sent him right back.

His breath hissed in. Reggie yipped and rushed over, shoving his precious ball into Owen's hand, sharing what always made him feel better. Owen put the toy into his pocket, then pushed his fingers into Reggie's fur to keep them from doing what they shouldn't.

Rubbing his leg. Yanking her back. Making a fist and punching a wall.

"I don't know why I did that," she said. "It's just-" She waved a hand toward the table, and he suddenly remembered what he had completely forgotten.

The travesty in his living room.

How could he have kissed her and dreamed of doing so much more, with that only a few feet away? Because, for him, a room that contained Becca Carstairs was devoid of anything else worth noticing.

"You always made everything better," she blurted to the wall and not to him. "At least until-" Her breath rushed out.

"Until I made everything worse."

After a few seconds of silence, during which Reggie glanced back and forth between the two of them, brow wrinkled, mouth open, she straightened. "I'm going up on the ridge to see if I can get a signal."

The ridge lay between this house and her parents' farm and was the highest point for miles around.

"Try the porch first." Owen jabbed his thumb toward the stairs that led to the bedrooms on the second level. The largest, his mother's, had a flat, porchlike area that extended over the garage. The trees had been shorn away from the utility poles more than once in the past ten years and created a tiny avenue to the sky. "Higher might help."

She started for the stairs. "If I can't get through I'll have to head to my folks' and use their landline."

He wanted to say he'd go with her, but the idea of climbing up one side of the ridge and down the other made his leg pulse.

"If you go, take Reggie."

She paused. "Why?"

"That wolf is still out there."

Becca glanced at the front door. "In the yard?"

"I didn't see her, but-"

"Yeah, no," she said.

"What do you mean, no?"

"Did I stutter? The last time your dog saw a wolf, he attacked her."

"Exactly."

"She wasn't doing anything but protecting me."

"And why was that?" he asked.

"Because you had a shovel and you appeared ready to use it. On my head."

"I didn't mean why did she protect you, but why did she protect anyone? She's a wild animal. They don't protect humans."

"Wolves are different."

A long, low, mournful howl rose toward the moon.

"That one sure is," he muttered.

I escaped upstairs while Owen was distracted by the wolf howl.

He hadn't looked so good. I suppose finding a pile of charred fur in your living room wasn't the best welcome home, but it hadn't been aimed at him. Had it?

No. No one could have known he'd be coming home. Could they?

I hadn't lied when I said I hadn't listened to scuttleb.u.t.t about him. I couldn't bear it. I'd loved him so d.a.m.n much. His leaving had been difficult, but I'd tried to understand.

I have nothing, Becca.

You have me.