Heat of the Moment by Lori Handeland

fast.
    Chief Deb reappeared and beckoned me. I followed her into the kitchen. She tapped her shoulder mike. “Emerson’s asking for you. Duchess has been in labor for hours.”
    As the only Emerson in Three Harbors was Emerson Watley, we were talking Duchess the cow, rather than Duchess the dog, or Duchess the duck. I did count all of them as patients.
    â€œThat’s not unusual. But … how did he know where I was?”
    â€œOffice is closed. Your cell isn’t getting a signal.”
    So he’d called the cops. I wasn’t really surprised. It had happened before with other clients. Usually people called my parents first. Emerson might have, but they wouldn’t have been any help.
    Often, if I knew I was going to an area where my phone would be useless I left word with dispatch. Three Harbors was a small town. Eventually, everyone called dispatch. Though this time I hadn’t left word because I hadn’t planned on a side trip. Thanks to the nightmare in the living room, the cops still knew where I was.
    Deb’s mike hissed with static loud enough to crack a window if there’d been any left to crack. She leaned out the gaping hole in the wall in an attempt to get a better signal.
    I joined her, standing as close as I could to hear the dispatcher—sounded like Candy Tarley, whose hair color fluctuated between cherry Gummy Bear and lemon Life Saver, depending on the month and her mood.
    â€œHe says—” Snap, crackle. “… doesn’t like—” Pop! “… looks of her.”
    Emerson Watley had been a dairy farmer for over forty years, like his father before him, and his father before him, and knew what a calving cow should look like.
    â€œTell him I’ll be right there.”
    â€œOkay, Becca.” Deb turned her head toward the mike, obviously waiting for the atrocious static to clear before she did so.
    No one had called me Dr. Carstairs since I’d graduated. A few went with Doc Becca. Didn’t matter. As long as the checks they sent to Three Harbors Animal Care didn’t bounce—I had huge school loans—they could call me anything they wanted. I just needed them to call.
    I had my hand on the front doorknob before I remembered I had no car. But Owen did.
    The hall was empty. I walked back to the living room.
    â€œHuh.”
    The living room was empty too.
    *   *   *
    The instant Becca moved into the kitchen with the chief, Owen gimped as fast as he could to the front door. Thankfully Deb and Becca faced away from the hall, the chief leaning half out the window as she tried to hear what the person on the other side of the fizzy radio was saying.
    Owen quietly opened the door. Reggie sat on the porch, right where he’d left him. Together they headed for the rental truck.
    After his injury Owen had been airlifted out of the field and taken to Bagram Air Base. Once he was stabilized he’d been flown to Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany, then transported to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center for surgery. Within a few days he’d been on another plane across the Atlantic to Walter Reed in D.C. Reggie had followed the same general trajectory—Bagram to Germany, though he’d been taken to Dog Center Europe, about fifteen minutes from LRMC.
    It was unusual for a working dog to return to the U.S., which on the one hand had made Owen nervous about the extent of Reggie’s injuries. On the other hand, Owen was glad he wasn’t alone. He was used to being with Reggie twenty-four/seven. Without him, he’d be more lost than he already was.
    Once Owen had been released from Walter Reed, he’d met Reggie’s plane in New York. They’d flown from there to Minneapolis. They could have taken another hop to the small airport in Ashland, but the cost was astronomical.
    Instead, Owen had rented a pickup truck, released Reggie from crate bondage, and driven several hours to Three