She skipped the personal information, flipping the sheets until she came to Battise’s injury assessment. It was more thorough than she expected.
Amputee, above the left knee. Battise, like many soldiers wounded by a blast that had a thermal element, had spent seventeen months in and out of hospitals, while surgeons dealt with additional injuries, did skin grafts, and reduced heavy scar tissue, all while initially attempting to salvage his leg. Just reading about it made her ache in sympathy for him. He had suffered so much.
In notes added in the margin she read how he had fought the doctors, wanting to maintain all of his ruined leg if he could. Only after he gave in to the need for amputation did his pain become manageable.
Jori paused to catch her breath. Managed pain. That meant there was still pain. All the time. That could erode a man’s attitude. She hadn’t made room for that possibility in her assessment of him. Maybe because he wanted it that way. Better to be thought an asshole than needy? Sounded like Battise. She glanced back down.
Instead of checking individual boxes, he’d made one big checkmark on top of the list of PTSD symptoms. In the area where he was asked to describe his symptoms, he’d written HELL. That covered a lot of ground.
She flipped to his work record. Right after college Battise entered the police academy and was then hired as a K-9 officer with the Arkansas State Police, Troop L, handling drug interdiction. Jori frowned. K-9 officer slots were at a premium in nearly every law enforcement department in the country. Even with the bushy beard, Battise didn’t seem much older than thirty. She flipped back a few sheets. Born in Polk County, Texas, 1984. Yep. Thirty-one next month. How had he gotten into a K-9 unit position right out of the academy?
She flipped the pages back to his personal information. Name: Lauray Bronson Battise.
“Oh crap.” Why hadn’t the name clicked in her head before? He was the son of Bronson Battise, one of the most famous trainers of military and police K-9s in the United States.
She had read everything she could find online about professionally trained K-9s once she was accepted in the WWP service dog program at the correctional center. Bronson Battise’s name came up often. As the founder and original owner of Harmonie Kennels, he had developed methods now used by other facilities to train specialty dogs for law enforcement, government agencies, and the military.
Jori blew out her breath and reached for her water bottle. A dozen questions chased around in her thoughts. For instance, why had he come here for a service dog when he could have trained any animal he wanted from the famous Harmonie Kennels?
“Find anything interesting in there?”
Jori hadn’t heard a sound but looked up and right into the black-gold glower of Lauray Battise, aimed at her from the open doorway.
CHAPTER FOUR
Samantha sprang to her feet and woofed happily, her long Cheez Doodle tail swishing back and forth as she padded over to greet him. Battise bent and scrubbed under her chin with both hands, murmuring words only they understood.
Jori’s reaction to his arrival wasn’t nearly so welcoming. When he straightened and looked at her, her voice was cool as ice. “Why are you back?”
Law wasn’t about to tell her about his sister’s text. She had sent him three words as he was climbing into his truck: Bring the dog. Yardley was spooky.
Instead, he looked down at Sam, who was leaning against his pant leg. “Sam. Down. Stay.”
Samantha plopped down on her belly but continued to look up at him with adoring eyes.
Law glanced again at Jori and pushed the door shut behind him.
When he closed the gap between them he could see his name typed on the tab of the folder she held. She was checking up on him. He couldn’t decide whether that was a good or a bad thing. He poked the file. “Know enough now?”
Jori shook her head. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re Bronson Battise’s son? Your family’s famous!”
His eyes narrowed. “Is that important to you?”
“It’s important that you’re a professional dog handler.” She smacked the folder against his chest. “You let me spend three days instructing you as if you’ve never owned a dog. I want to know why.”
“Maybe I was curious about your technique.”
“But other people knew. I must look like a fool to them.”
“You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.” Those dark eyes of his were shifting over her again, as if he thought he had missed something the first two times he’d stared at her today. This time his gaze dropped all the way to her feet, where it stayed for a few seconds. “Well, maybe there’s something. Your shoes don’t match.”
“So what?” She deliberately wore one red sneaker and one yellow one.
“You wear mismatched shoes or socks every day.” His accessing gaze came back to her face. “That must mean something.”
“Only to me.”
“As long as you aren’t ashamed of it.”