Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (59 page)

Three Months Later
Oahu, Hawaii

I
t seems I owe you an apology.”

Arms wrapped around her mother, Sajjan Takkar embraced his wife from behind and looked over the top of her updo at Timbrel. “How is that, daughter?” Something weird, warm, and wild corkscrewed her stomach at that endearment. The old Timbrel, the one who hadn’t met Tony or gone through enough drama to last two lifetimes, would’ve told this handsome Sikh where he could shove that turban.

But this Timbrel, the one who stood on the beach as sunset caressed the crystal clear waters … the one who’d just watched her mother commit to love, honor, and obey—yes, Timbrel had snickered when those words met air—Sajjan Takkar until death parted them … that Timbrel found the words beautifully healing.

So much that she almost lost her train of thought. He’d just called her “daughter.” Maybe it was an Indian thing. Nobody had ever called her that. “I doubted you, doubted who you were. Right up till the end.”

“You were right to question who I was and what I was doing,” Sajjan said. “The work I was doing was tricky and deceptive, something I take no pleasure in. But I believe God has gifted me with a talent for persuasion.”

“Oh, definitely.” Her mother crooned as she twisted and wrapped her arms around him. The two kissed as if they were the only ones left in the world.

“Ugh.” Timbrel feigned disgust. “Get a room.”

“Great idea,” Sajjan said as he led his wife through the dusk and back in the direction of the cottage they’d rented for their extended honeymoon.

It was good. Really good to see her mom truly happy. Sajjan was a thousand times the man Don Stephens had been. And Timbrel knew the man who’d just swept her mom off her feet would never even conceive the thought of hurting Timbrel the way Don had. Sajjan genuinely loved her. They were both Christians, a surprise she’d discovered while the trip here was being planned. Sajjan wore the turban to honor his ancestors and heritage, but he had surrendered the religious beliefs years past and embraced Jesus, not just as a prophet but as the Son of God.

With a contented sigh, she turned and scanned the beach. Tony sat on the sand with Rika poised next to him. In shorts, Tony stretched out, his prosthesis showing. Timbrel loved the design with the flag and eagle. She smiled at how accurate it was for him.

He looked up as she plodded toward them. “You send the kids to their room?”

“They’re worse than teenagers,” she said with a laugh. “But I think she did this right—an intimate ceremony. No months-long planning. No drama. No paparazzi. It’s the second-best thing.”

“What’s the first?”

“Eloping.” Wait. “Where’s Beo?”

Tony pointed down the beach.

“Ah.” Timbrel joined him. “Thought any more about that medical discharge?”

He nodded. “Yeah.” He sighed heavily. “I’ve been thinking about a lot of things, but that especially. When I woke up with my leg gone, I thought I was done with ODA452.”

She eyed him, surprised. “Really?”

“God’s given me a lot of good things, kept me alive to be here tonight.”

“And I’m so glad He did.”

“So, how you doing with that?”

“With what?”

“God.”

Timbrel wrinkled her nose. “Things are still hard to understand—”

“Faith—”

“But”—she held up a hand silencing him—“ever since Pops gave me that card on the mission … I’ve been working through things, I guess. All my life, I had to take care of myself, protect myself.”

Though Tony looked like she’d just bruised his ego a bit, he didn’t say anything. And she was glad. It was hard enough fessing up like this.

“Anyway, I don’t have to understand to believe or to surrender that illusion of control.”

Tony’s eyebrows rose. “Surrender.” A heartbeat passed, then he smirked. “Good.” His gaze rose to the star-sprinkled sky then back to her. “Do I need to hurt Pops?”

Grunting, Timbrel hid her laugh. “Will you always be
this
possessive?”

“Absolutely. And I call it protective. Not possessive.” He curled an arm around her waist and kissed her temple. “I’m proud of you, Timbrel. You’ve come a long way, baby.”

She would’ve thought the sun had come back up for all the warmth that flooded her. “Thanks. What about you, Hot Shot?”

“What about me?”

“You going back?”

Tony let out a long sigh and stared out over the water. “Speaking of surrender … I thought my days as a Green Beret were over, but now, I just feel challenged more. I’d like to keep working with the team, somehow.”

Beo trotted toward them, sand kicking up as he ran.

Craning her neck forward, Timbrel tried to see in the ever-darkening day. “What’s he got in his mouth?”

“Beats me.”

Beo jogged up to them. Ignored Timbrel. Growled at Tony. And dropped his stash at Rika’s paws. A dead fish.

Tony’s German shepherd lifted her chin and shifted her seated stance. She stared out over the water. Glanced at Tony. But refused to acknowledge Beo’s effort at wooing her.

“That’s just cruel,” Timbrel said with a laugh as Tony rubbed Rika’s shoulder.

“Give the big guy a break, girl.” Tony patted Rika’s flank. “He’s ugly—”

“Hey.”

“But he’s trying his best.”

Beo nudged the fish closer.

Rika lifted her chin again.

This time, Beo nudged Rika’s chin as if to say, “Do that again.”

She did.

Beo dropped down. Wagged his butt. Barked.

Finally Rika slumped against the sand. Sniffed the fish.

Beo stood straight. Shoulders squared and chest out. Proud of his kill. Proud he won her over.

“C’mere,” Tony said as he stood and dusted the sand from his shorts. He held out his hand.

Timbrel laced her fingers with his and walked with him.

“Remember that day in the hospital?”

“You mean, when you told me to get out of your life?”

Tony breathed his laugh. “Yeah, not my hour of shining.”

Leaning into him, she held his arm with her free hand and rested her head on his shoulder. “Let’s put it behind us.”

“First,” he said as they followed a stone wall around and back toward the main hotel. He stopped. “I kissed you in the hospital and you kept pulling away.”

Timbrel blinked. “I did? I don’t—oh.” She released his hand, tilted her neck forward, and turned. “See the scar?”

He pressed a warm kiss to her neck, skittering goose bumps down her spine. “What’s it from?”

“Brain decompression surgery.” She faced him, brushing her long bangs aside.

Tony’s brow knotted. “Brain … surgery?”

“I didn’t know it, but in the blast, I got hurt. Thrown against a wall.” Tony gaped.

With a shrug, she caught his hand again. “When you kissed me, you were holding the back of my neck—it hurt.”

Tony groaned. “And here, I thought …”

She turned to him. “You thought I was pulling away from you, in more ways than one? That I really was so bothered by Titanium Leg—Geez, you’re shallow!”

“Hey, I was mortally wounded.”

“Going all wounded-knee on me, now?”

Tony slowly met her gaze. “That day, thinking you were pitying me, was the darkest day of my life.”

What she was supposed to say, she didn’t know. She just didn’t want this romantic getaway weekend to end here. Didn’t want to sabotage what had grown back between them over the last three months … didn’t want it to shatter. “Well, you filled that hole pretty quickly.”

The confusion trickling through his face gave him away. Then he smiled. “Rika.”

Shrugging, Timbrel started away. “You replaced me.”

He tugged her back. “Not possible.” Cupped her face. “Timbrel.” Green eyes searched hers. That cockeyed smile as he traced her features. His expression went crazy serious.

“That’s my name.”

“Remember what you said back there?”

Retracing her verbal steps, Timbrel leapt and bounded from one topic to another. Her mom and Sajjan. Rika and Beo. What else…?
Eloping
. Adrenaline heated her body. She widened her eyes.

Tony smirked. “Earlier,” he said, tilted his head behind them as if to point to the past, “you talked about surrendering control … so would it bother you if I reupped and requalified to work with the team?”

Oh. That. “Why would I mind?” She shrugged. “Isn’t that who you are?”

“I thought if we had a status change”—he bobbed his eyebrow as he jerked his head to the left—“you might feel differently. What do you say?” Again he indicated for her to look at something.

Warily, Timbrel glanced to the side.

A man in a white Hawaiian shirt and pants stood at a table lit by a lone torch. A slight breeze drifted in off the ocean and rifled a piece of paper. The header was hidden, but somehow … somehow she knew what it was.
Marriage license
.

“Are you asking me to marry you?”

“Well, my dad said I can’t come home without you and Beo, so I figure—”

“Your sister hates me.”

“And my brother loves you. I gotta beat him to the punch.”

Timbrel slapped his gut. “Jerk. Coward.”

“Ouch.” Chuckling, he nodded. “You’re right. I am. When it comes to you, I most definitely am. And Stephanie will adjust. Baby, I don’t want to fail you again.”

Whoa. “Be prepared—you will.”

Tony stared.

“You’re human. And so am I—so be ready for me to screw it up.” She smiled, trying to avoid the tears as her heart registered what was happening. What she was
letting
happen. “Because that’s the thing I’m best at.”

“No.” Tony shook his head. “I know something you’re far better at.”

“What’s th—?”

Tony pressed his lips against hers, and Timbrel eased into his arms as he deepened the kiss. Barking resonated in the back of her mind. Without warning, Tony punched into her. He jerked, breaking off the kiss. Spun around.

Beowulf dropped low, paws on the ground as he barked and growled, his tail going a hundred miles an hour.

Arms up and legs spread in a fighting stance, Tony wagged his fingers at Beo. “C’mon, you hound of hell. Bring it!”

Ronie Kendig
is an award-winning, bestselling author who grew up an Army brat. After twenty-plus years of marriage, she and her hunky hero husband have a full life with four children and a Maltese Menace in northern Virginia. Author and speaker, Ronie loves engaging readers through her Rapid-Fire Fiction. Ronie can be found at
www.roniekendig.com
, on Facebook (
www.facebook.com/rapidfirefiction
), Twitter (
@roniekendig
), and Goodreads (
www.goodreads.com/RonieK
).

Dear Readers,

Thank you for taking the adventure with Beowulf and his human counterparts, Timbrel and Candyman. I hope you’ve laughed, maybe cried, but more importantly—learned something about our military heroes (two-legged and four-legged) that might spur you to action! In fact, let me share an organization with you that I encourage you to consider supporting, either through donation or other support methods!

Before I stepped into writing military fiction, I had a profound encounter, meeting the family of a Navy SEAL who struggled with posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Seeing the impact that hero’s career had on him and his family altered my desire to write about our military heroes in one respect: I promised myself I would never write a military fiction novel without showing the repercussions the brutal role of combat has on these heroes. PTSD is real, it’s daunting, and sometimes—the fight is lost.

A recent statistic stunned me:
“Through April, the U.S. military has recorded 161 potential suicides in 2013 among active-duty troops, reservists and National Guard members —a pace of one suicide about every 18 hours.”
(May 23, 2013, article by Bill Briggs of NBC News)

Heartbroken by this alarming reality, I was happy to come upon (via Facebook) The Battle Buddy Foundation, an organization actively working to combat the stigma of PTSD and arm our military heroes battling PTSD with the help necessary to win the war on the mind. TBBF is also facilitating the training, certifications, and placement of service dogs with disabled veterans, as well as offering an equine therapy program. The service dogs—a real, hands-on “battle buddy”—caught my eye since readers meet a dog like that in
Beowulf
.