Courting Chloe (Hudson Valley Heroes Book 1) Page 3

  Although clients were never charged for a dog—in most cases, medical expenses had already completely decimated family budgets—donations were gladly accepted. Between those donations, online crowd-funding sites, and state and local grants, they’d managed to cobble together an income stream. Unfortunately that income was tenuous at best.

  Sara lifted a thick manila file and passed it to her. “I just finished the profiles of our incoming guests. The roster’s ready for distribution.”

  Thunder rumbled and a gust of wind rattled the window. Chloe glanced outside in appreciation of the coming storm and then took a seat and opened the file. The first photograph showed a smiling sixteen-year-old boy in a soccer uniform. Apparently it had been taken just days before his ATV accident. On a dare from a friend, he’d taken a jump he shouldn’t have and the resultant injury left him paralyzed from the waist down. Not only was he coping with the physical trauma of the injury, he had fallen into a state of severe depression. With the assistance of a service dog, his parents felt he could manage a return to his public high school. They were also hoping that the bond created working with a dog could help mitigate his depression. True on both counts, Chloe thought.

  More summaries followed. The mother of two young children had been dealt a devastating diagnosis of MS, and needed the assistance of a service dog to help her stay mobile and care for her family. A widowed sixty-year old male had recently lost his sight, and as a consequence had become a shut-in. An injured army veteran suffered from PTSD. A deaf couple about to become parents for the first time wanted an assistance dog to alert them when their baby cried, or when they needed to be made aware of other important sounds in their environment.

  In other words, just another normal week at the camp. Chloe paused after reading the last client summary and thumbed through the contents of the file. “Only five clients coming in? I thought I was scheduled to work with an autistic boy.”

  “His mother had to cancel. Some problem with his meds. We’ll reschedule, try to get him in before Christmas.”

  Chloe nodded. That happened, but it was always regrettable when it did. Every week, dozens of letters poured in from people desperately seeking a service dog. When a trainer, dog, and residence quarters were available, it was a shame to let that slot go unfilled.

  “I’m getting ready to put out some calls,” Sara said, correctly interpreting Chloe’s expression. “We’ll see if we can’t bump somebody off our waitlist.”

  “Perfect.” Chloe stood. She grabbed the stack of files, ready to distribute them to the other trainers. Before she turned to go, she nodded at the voluminous stack of mail. “Anything else?”

  “Actually, yes. I’ve instituted a new procedure for—”

  The office door slammed open, cutting off Sara’s words midstream. Wind whipped through the open door, scattering the papers on her desk. Caught unaware, both women spun around.

  A dark-haired man stood framed in the doorway. Behind him, rain poured down in sheets, thunder rumbled, and lightening flashed. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his body thickly muscular. He wore an immaculately tailored suit made of navy wool, a white shirt, and burgundy tie. Expensive shoes. He was also soaking wet. A small puddle formed at his feet and turbulence radiated from his pores, as though his very presence had been conjured by the storm.

  Chloe’s instant impression, gleaned from both his stance and his expression, was one of reckless agitation coupled with intense determination. Vivid eyes, strong jaw, and chiseled cheekbones. Strikingly handsome, but not movie star good looks—more rough and tumble. Definitely not a local. She was certain she would remember his face if she’d seen him before.

  Despite his formal manner of dress, it was clear he wasn’t some 9-to-5, sit behind a desk kind of guy. He carried himself in the manner of a professional athlete, inner city cop, or a member of an elite military squad. Someone who wouldn’t be uncomfortable using force to get his way.

  Bowie, who until that moment had been contentedly dozing beneath Sara’s desk, shot forward, hackles raised. The shepherd didn’t growl, but his protective stance was immediately clear. The man wasn’t coming closer until Sara gave the okay.

  Chloe considered calling out to Luke—hopefully he was somewhere within earshot—when she heard a child’s frightened gasp. Her gaze shot lower, and she noted for the first time a pair of scrawny arms wrapped around the man’s thigh. The child (she couldn’t see enough to determine whether it was a boy or girl) cowered behind the man’s leg.

  “Bowie, Back,” Sara commanded.

  The shepherd retreated a few steps, but didn’t go into a Down. Sara’s calculated acknowledgement of the child’s presence, nothing more. The dog remained on alert: ears forward, back stiff, rear legs slightly bent and ready to pounce.

  “Can we help you?” Sara asked, her voice cool and in control.

  “I hope so.” The man gave Bowie a glance, appearing not the least bit intimidated by the menace the shepherd exuded. “I’m Ian Dowling,” he said. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the violence of the storm. He dragged a hand through his sodden hair, pushing the dark strands off his forehead. “I spoke to someone here about getting a dog…” When neither Sara nor Chloe responded fast enough, he bit out, “This is that camp place, right?”

  “Yes,” Sara said. “Hudson Valley Canine Assistance Camp. We train and place service animals. I don’t believe you have an appointment, Mr.—”

  “Dowling. Ian Dowling. I called and tried to get an appointment. You told me you couldn’t see us for another eight weeks. That won’t work.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sara replied. “I know waiting is difficult, but we do the best we can. If your need is urgent, I can give you lists of other—”

  “Lists? No. No more lists. Do you have any idea how many goddamned lists we’ve—”As the man’s voice rose, reflecting his increasing agitation, Bowie shifted his weight forward. The child whimpered and tightened his grip on the man’s thigh. Dowling effortlessly swung the young boy up onto his hip and bit out, “For Christ’s sake, would you please call off your dog? He’s scaring the shit out of my nephew.”

  Sara stood. Hesitated. The moment stretched.

  Chloe stood as well. “It’s okay,” she said, sending Sara a subtle nod. In the space of their brief interaction, she had reassessed the man.

  While he might appear menacing to others, Chloe knew better. In her years working late night shifts at St. Mark’s pediatric ward, she’d seen men and women just like him. He was not here to intimidate. Neither did he harbor any intent to cause harm. Rather, this was a man who was tightly, tightly wound. Holding It Together, but just barely.

  She recognized all the signs. Ian Dowling didn’t display the wild, crisis panic she’d been accustomed to seeing in pediatric ER. In a way, his agitation was much worse. He behaved with the combative, unruly desperation of an adult who was trying—and failing—to alleviate the suffering of a child he loved. Her gaze moved to the small boy clinging to Dowling’s thigh.

  “Really, Sara,” she said. “It’s okay.”

  Sara gave her a wary glance, and then nodded. “Bowie, Kennel,” she said. Bowie obediently turned and retraced his steps, trotting toward a spacious closet off the main office where his wire cage waited. He settled inside and Sara closed the wire door after him.

  “Thank you.” Dowling’s gratitude was curt, perfunctory.

  “Is the service dog for you or your nephew, Mr. Dowling?” Chloe asked, though she already knew the answer. The dog was for the boy. That much was etched all over Dowling’s face, apparent in the rigid tension in his body.

  As Dowling’s gaze swung toward her, surprise showed. Obviously he hadn’t noticed until that moment that Chloe was even in the room. She didn’t take it personally. Panic clouded all faculties. If she’d bothered to pause for an instant and take Dowling’s blood pressure, she was certain it would be sky high.

  “My nephew,” he said.

  “All right, then. Very good.
That means I’m the one you need to talk to. I’m Chloe Edmonds. I’m a trainer here and also a licensed pediatric nurse.” She modulated her tone to one of crisp, clinical efficiency, and Dowling responded, allowing himself what she intuited was a rare moment of vulnerability. Hope entered his hazel gaze, but it flickered in and out, and she understood that the wrong word, even the wrong breath, would extinguish it completely.

  She shifted her attention to the boy. “Hi, there,” she said. “I’m Chloe. What’s your name?”

  After a bit of coaxing from his uncle, the boy mumbled an indistinct word. Prissy? That couldn’t be right. Chloe’s practiced eye surveyed the child. He was delicately boned, all knees and elbows, with a waxy pallor to his skin. Six, maybe seven years old. Dark circles under enormous blue eyes. Faint bruising showed on his cheekbone and his lower lip. His hair was cut into short, pale bristles that sprung out from a small, tender scalp. A vivid pink scar ran along the right side of his temple. He looked terrifyingly fragile. But it was also possible that the boy’s diminutive stature was exaggerated by the sheer size and strength of the man who held him.

  “Preston has seizures,” Dowling announced.

  Preston. Chloe made a mental note of the name. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she replied.

  “They’re trauma induced, beginning—”

  “Did you bring his medical file?”

  Dowling blinked. She hadn’t meant to be curt, but family members often mangled medical terms, blurred diagnostic history, omitted key prescriptions, and misspoke prognoses. Rarely was it deliberate, but it confused things. Better to get the facts directly from the boy’s chart.

  “Of course,” he said. “It’s in the car.” He moved to set down Preston, but the child tightened his grip around his uncle, clinging to Dowling with the fierce tenacity of a baby chimp.

  Given the circumstances, Chloe wouldn’t have begrudged the man a growl of frustration. Instead, he brushed his large palm reassuringly down his nephew’s bony spine. He opened the door and paused to take in the dramatic weather. Then he bent his head low. In a voice that was achingly tender, he spoke to the boy in his arms.

  “Too bad we left your Aquaman cape at home, huh? Maybe you’d let me borrow it. No? What’s that? Silly? You think I’d look silly? Well.” A long pause while they watched the rain pour down in sheets. “You sure you don’t want to stay here and watch me run out to the car? I guess we’re both gonna get wet, then. Good thing I taught you to swim, huh buddy? Take a deep breath, here we go!”

  Shielding the boy as best as he could, Dowling ducked against the rain and raced to his car, splashing through puddles as he went. When they returned, Sara exchanged his rugged accordion file for a set of thick cotton towels. As Dowling and his nephew dried off, Chloe took a cursory glance through the medical portion of the file, looking for the essential facts of Preston’s case. They didn’t take long to find.

  Car accident. Traumatic brain injury. Subdural hematoma. Cranial surgery consisting of burr hole trephination. A subsequent history of epileptic type convulsive seizures.

  That told her what she needed to know, at least from a medical perspective. The answer was yes, the boy could be helped by an assistance dog. The camp had a solid record of providing meaningful help to seizure patients, even when dealing with cases as young as Preston’s. A canine partner might also help the boy gain some badly needed confidence. Chloe noted the way he sat curled up in Dowling’s lap, refusing a chair of his own, even refusing to let his uncle out of his sight. So there was emotional trauma there, as well.

  All right, then.

  Chloe waited for an appropriate pause in the conversation, and then sent Sara a discreet nod. She turned to Ian Dowling. “Based on what I’ve read, your nephew would be an excellent candidate for an assistance dog.”

  “No,” Preston whined, burying his face in his uncle’s shirt. “I don’t want a dog. I want you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, buddy,” Dowling soothed. “But we talked about this, remember? It would be good for us to get a little help, wouldn’t it? You, me, and some smart pooch we bring back home. You can help pick him out, all right?”

  “That’s not quite how the process works,” Chloe interrupted, “but we can get into the details later. We’ll add you and your nephew to our list, Mr. Dowling, and contact you as soon as there’s an opening—”

  “No. Not as soon as,” Dowling bit out, his gaze locking on Chloe. His voice, so tender when speaking to his nephew, was now razor sharp. “I’ll pay for the dog, but we need it now.”

  “I don’t think you understand. That’s not the way it works. We have a client list. People who have been waiting for a dog much longer than you have. Furthermore, we’re a nonprofit. We don’t expect our clients to pay—”

  “How much?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “How much does a service dog cost? I imagine they don’t come cheap.”

  Chloe clamped her jaw shut, swallowing past her irritation. She’d seen that attitude demonstrated time and again at St. Mark’s and it never failed to infuriate her. Few things in life outraged her more than wealthy patients who insisted on being seen first, who thought their money entitled them to better, faster treatment.

  Obviously Dowling was accustomed to blithely bulldozing his way through any obstacle that got in his way, no matter what it cost or who he hurt. As though determined to prove her unflattering summation correct, he removed a check from his suit pocket and slid it across the desk toward Sara.

  “Even nonprofits have bills to pay,” he said flatly. “That ought to help with some of them.”

  Sara lifted the check. Her dark blond brows arched as surprise showed on her features. Then she looked up, staring at the man sitting across from her. “One hundred thousand dollars? That’s very generous, Mr. Dowling.”

  One hundred thousand dollars? Chloe’s breath caught. The last time the camp had received a donation in that amount was… well, never. At least, not as long as she’d been there.

  “Generous enough to bump Preston to the front of the line?”

  Chloe’s gaze shot to Dowling. He was watching Sara intently, his chin lifted in a fighter’s stance, his fingers curled in a loose fist against his nephew’s back. His expression hadn’t changed, but his message was clear: Give me what I want, and give it to me now. Forget everyone else who was here before me, I’ve got the money, so I matter more. Me, me, me.

  When Sara paused, he pressed harder. “If that’s not enough, I can get more. But not right away. I’ll need to liquidate a few investments. It will take me—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Sara replied briskly.

  Righteousness swelled in Chloe’s chest. She watched in approval, certain Sara was about to return Dowling’s check and inform him with no uncertainty that he and his nephew would have to wait for a slot to open up, just like everyone else. Instead, Sara said, “I believe our schedule can accommodate you.”

  What?

  Chloe lurched back to her feet. “Sara, you can’t. That’s not—” She sputtered, and then stopped abruptly, catching herself. There was one—and only one—four letter word that was never spoken aloud at the camp. The dreaded ‘F’ word.

  Fair.

  Nothing in life was fair, and if ever anyone wanted to test that hypothesis, the Hudson Valley Canine Assistance Camp was the place to come. Was it fair that one youthful, impulsive act put a sixteen-year-old boy in a wheelchair for the rest of his life? That a highly decorated army veteran lost both legs in a mine explosion? Was it fair that some people had beautiful homes, took luxurious vacations, and were perfectly healthy, while others struggled to pay bills and endured the loss of their sight, their hearing, their ability to move at all?

  She looked up to find Dowling’s hazel eyes fixed on her, his fragile nephew curled in his lap. A quiet fury gathered around him, as though silently daring her to lecture him about what was fair.

  Chloe paused, cleared her throat. “The way things a
re done here,” she finished lamely, biting down her objection as she retook her seat. Ignoring Dowling, she directed her attention to Sara. “We don’t take clients based on their ability to pay. We never have. That’s not what we do.”

  “True,” Sara agreed. She gave a thoughtful pause, absently running her fingertips along the edge of Dowling’s check. “But from my perspective, this is a win-win for everyone. Think about it, Chloe. We just had a slot open up, so we’re not bumping anyone out of line by accommodating Mr. Dowling and his nephew. Furthermore, a financial gift of this size will ensure that four additional patients receive the service animals they desperately need.”

  Chloe considered that. “I suppose.”

  Sara gestured to her desk. “And frankly, it will be a tremendous relief to finally get these bills taken care of.”

  Dowling watched them converse, saying nothing. Interesting—clearly he’d won, gotten exactly what he wanted, yet there was no gloating in his expression, no smug victory in his eyes. Nothing remotely objectionable. Only exhaustion and resignation, mingled with a grim determination to move forward, whatever that meant, and wherever that might take him.

  Sara tucked the check away in her desk drawer. She reached for a key to one of the guest lodges and passed it to Dowling. “You’re in luck. Our next training session begins tomorrow,” she said. “Of course, we’ll need to meet with Preston’s parents and have them sign the necessary releases.”

  “I have full legal guardianship,” he answered. He nodded to the thick accordion file and rose. He set his nephew down, but Preston remained glued to his side, clutching his uncle’s hand. “That paperwork is in there as well.”

  Sara nodded. “I’ll review Preston’s file at greater length tonight, but for the moment let’s assume everything is in order.”

  “It is.”

  “All right, then,” Sara continued briskly. “Every client we serve is assigned a personal trainer. You’ll work with Chloe. As she mentioned earlier, she’s a licensed nurse who specializes in pediatric trauma. You’re in good hands. Right, Chloe?”