Heal My Heart: My Heart, #3

By Marian Griffin

Carol Lee has PTSD after a long tour in Afghanistan. Saving children was her weakness but the losses added up quickly. She always had cats but now she needs a dog. A therapy dog. She has to learn about dogs in general, therapy dogs specifically and her dog trainer's sexy brother.

Mason Wallace is a car mechanic, classic cars specifically. He believes post-traumatic stress syndrome is real but believes people should be able to push through and face their fears. Unike his uncle who killed himself six months after returning from Iraq.

Mason becomes infatuated with Carol before he learns she has PTSD and his little sister is teaching her about dogs. After a tense dinner, he flees back to the Casa Blance Resort & Spa with the intention of leaving the island altogether. But...Carol stays in his head.

And his heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marian Griffin
• Release date: Sep 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386301684

Marian Griffin

Marian Hallett Griffin is a native New Yorker imported to Florida in the 1970s. The family moved to California then back to New York after her father passed away. After high school, she and her mother moved to Florida, not that Marian like hot sun, humidity or the beach. The University of Florida granted her a Bachelor of Science in Broadcasting, after extracting a pound or two of flesh, which got her to work in television production. The University of South Florida granted her a Master’s degree in Library and Information Science after seven short years to complete a one year degree (due to a full-time job, a family, taking care of her mother and going to school).    Join her on a journey through contemporary, historical and paranormal romance featuring the men you want to meet and the women you want to be while living the life.

Book preview

Chapter 1

An explosion rent the air. The concussion of air expanded around the corner. Sergeant Carol Lee pressed tight against the side of an anonymous building. At this point all buildings were the same to her. They hid bullets, bad guys, hand grenades, civilians and bombs. This bomb took three to four seconds for the leading edge of the dust cloud to push around the corner.

People screamed, scrambled and ran through a rain of blast debris hard on their heels. Some of it on their heads. A small boy fell face first in the middle of the street. Maybe five years old. A weakness, she knew. Shuddering, she bolted into the intersection, scooped the kid up and carried him out of danger. She swung him around to her front, her back against the anonymous building again, his feet dangling above the ground. Saved one, at least. A young woman wearing a burka ran past, toward the explosion. She made a slipping, sliding ninety degree turn, headed straight for Carol and grabbed the boy enfolding him in the voluminous blue folds of her burka. The mother and the soldier’s eyes met and held for just a moment, then the woman ran down the street. Twenty feet away her body dropped like a rag doll. Another mother shot dead.

Sergeant Lee ran into the street, firing her weapon in the direction the bullet had come from. But it was no use. The woman and the boy were dead.

No! The boy didn’t die, Carol said to the dark room. She sat up in bed breathing hard but working on steadying herself. The boy didn’t die. His mother saved him by covering him with her bleeding body.

She remembered when she was awake. A man had followed the mother’s path and fell next to her body. He pulled the terrified boy into his arms as tears washed unholy tracks down his face. He held the crying boy in his arms. He made a strangely musical sound as he wailed and rocked back and forth trying to comfort the living and the dead. It didn’t work that way, Carol knew.

There was no comfort. For anyone.

Even for a guilty witness.

Ever.

Chapter 2

Ascreech, a bang, metal clanging on concrete brought Mason Wallace on the run. He tore out of the back garage with four bays and flew around the corner of the office building. It also had four bays but faced the street. The bays were used mostly for oil changes, tire work and front end alignments. The heavy thrum of traffic was ignored as Wallace arrowed directly to the third bay where he had left Cliff working on his old Ford. It wasn’t just an old Ford. It was a ’65 white on red Mustang, four-on-the-floor, 90 horsepower, 365. Unfortunately, it had a hard top but, fortunately, Cliff wasn’t one to complain.

Mason ducked under the lift and grabbed Cliff’s shoulders who held his left arm tight to his chest.

What happened? Where are you hurt? Mason examined him with his eyes but the boy turned away and stepped to the work bench.

Mason didn’t see any blood on the boy’s back.

Ah, the bumper slipped and fell off. Of course it took a chunk out of my arm on the way down.

Mason stepped up to the kid to check out the damage. He knew seventeen year old Cliff was probably more embarrassed than hurt but Mason want to check out the hurt before raggin’ on the kid.

Oh, shit, Cliff. Mason took the boy’s hand and held it while he examined the laceration on the arm. Christ, kid. You’re gonna need stitches.

Maybe a couple, Cliff said watching his blood run down the inside of his arm and drip, drip onto the bumper laying at his feet.

A couple dozen, Mason muttered under his breath. He jogged into the office and grabbed the first aid kit. It was pathetic but then most of the crew would cut an arm off before asking for so much as a band aid, Mason included. His parents still rode him about not getting an annual check-up. He didn’t go to the doctor when he was sick or hurt, so why should he go when he was fine? He dumped the contents of the first aid kit onto the work bench and found a roll of gauze. Wrapping Cliff’s arm Mason bit his tongue. He didn’t want to tsk, tsk the kid like Mason’s mother always did while cleaning up blood.

It’s okay, boss, the boy said as Mason tied the ends of the gauze together.

You want to keep your job?

Your car or mine? Cliff asked with a wry twist to his mouth.

I’ll drive, Mason said as he turned to get his keys.

Watch out!

Mason heard a grinding of metal as he crossed under the front left wheel of the Mustang. The car settled lower on the lift. The brake pad speared down through the lift supports. The impact drove him to his knees. His breath locked in his chest and he saw stars, something he’d always thought was just a figure of speech.

Cliff, using his right arm, hauled Mason to his feet and, watching the car warily, they shuffled out from under it. Cliff guided Mason to one of the chairs and let him drop into the seat. In a few minutes, when Mason got his breath back and the stars receded, he looked up at the kid. What the hell happened now?

I think some of the bolts are missing, Cliff said watching the car warily. Guy I bought it from said he’d taken it apart then put it back together. Must have had a few bolts left over. Sorry, boss. He put a hand on Mason’s shoulder. It almost felled him again.

Giving in and groaning, he asked Cliff to pull his phone out of his shirt pocket. He touched the phone icon, then favorites. His hand shaking, he touched the third entry.

Raeanne? Can you come down to the garage?

Mason, I’m in the middle of—

Cliff’s arm needs stitches and I just got clocked by a Mustang.

There was a pause. You got clocked by a horse?

It’s a car, Raeanne. Just come get us, will you?

Chapter 3

Carol wasn’t sure what she was getting into. It wasn’t something she’d ever done or ever thought she’d do.

I’ve always had cats, she explained to the Golden Retriever sitting patiently at her feet. He smiled up at her and his tail swept back and forth like a busy woman’s feather duster.

You do have a nice smile. The tail swept faster.

And you’re very well behaved. The smile grew and he lifted one paw. When he did, his head tilted to one side like he was asking, Wanna shake?

Carol took his paw and the dog shuddered in delight.

How are you two getting along? Dixie Rose asked as she returned from fetching a collar, leash and vest for the patient Harry.

Carol started a bit and immediately felt guilty and stupid. Fine. Just fine.

Uh huh. Let’s get Harry dressed and go for a walk.

At the word walk, Harry shuddered again. Dixie Rose laughed and said, Release. Harry jumped to his feet and leaped in unbridled joy.

Carol was jealous. She had trouble with feeling fine, or okay. Joy was a long way off. Even her counselors had told her it would take time, a long time. Setting her chin, she squared her shoulders. I’m ready.

Dixie Rose looked at her. Carol, relax. We’re going for a walk. With Harry. We’ll be back in fifteen minutes or so.

Right, Carol said. Starting with her toes, she went through the short program of her release-the-tension exercise. While she unlocked her muscles, she watched Dixie interact with the dog. Harry. His tail never stopped, his grin was as cute and goofy as a newborn kitten and he really liked Dixie and what she was doing.

The collar goes on first, then the leash. As she clipped the leash to the dog’s—Harry’s—collar, he sat down and put on what Carol thought of as his serious face. Then the vest. Dixie leaned over and snapped the clip under Harry’s belly. Dixie stood up and held the leash out to Carol.

You want me to walk him? Loosened muscles tightened.

Sure. The thing is, Carol, he’s just a dog. He’s a very well trained dog with certification as a therapy and companion dog. But he’s just a dog.

Carol rubbed her hands together then wiped them on her pants. Harry tilted his head to the left and whined.

It’s okay, Harry, Carol said. The dog wagged his tail.

See? He’s communicating with you already. And you’re communicating with him.

Carol reached for the leash and was glad not see her hand tremble. She took the leash and stepped