Chapter 1

One

L uther

Luther Sorenson’s daily morning routine involved pain, determination, and a lot of old man noises. He needed to work up the courage to straighten his legs, swing them over the side of the bed, and plant his feet on the floor if he was going to get through the day. If he got that far, then he’d push himself to shuffle to his yoga mat and go through the excruciating process of completing the PT exercises he’d been doing since the accident three years ago. This routine meant the difference between a day of crippling pain or manageable dull aches that would allow him to complete his tasks with minimal distraction.

He’d never be in the shape he was in before the accident, but at least he could walk, could still move. He was fortunate. His VA benefits provided some assistance for nontraditional treatments, which was good, because none of the surgical options were guaranteed to work, and he was looking at a lifetime of managing debilitating pain. He struggled, but he’d do whatever was necessary in order to continue with his most important purpose…

“I had a bad dream.”

Eight-year-old Mila Saavedra stood in the doorway of Luther’s room with a stuffed dinosaur hanging limply from one hand. Her other hand was pressed against her stomach.

Luther turned over and sat on his yoga mat with his arm out, gesturing for her to come closer. The brief seconds she hesitated to move toward the mat gutted him. Once she settled on a course of action, she approached him, not front on but coming around the mat to stand nearer his side.

“What happened in your dream?”

Mila sat cross-legged and folded her hands in her lap with Terry D’actyl against her body. It was still tough to get her to make eye contact, but Luther knew better than to push that issue. It hadn’t worked with him as a young man, and he was determined not to make the same mistakes as the foster parents he’d lived with.

“I went to school and no one was there to greet us. I went to my classroom and no one was there. No one came to take us to lunch. I sat at my desk all day, and no one came. And at the end of the day…” She ducked her head, and Luther heard the shaky breath she took in.

“At the end of the day, I come to get you.”

She shook her head.

Luther let out a breath. As much as he hated to revisit his past, Mila’s social worker, Miss Vanessa, told him from the start that building rapport with his foster daughter would likely require him to find ways to connect with her around their shared experiences.

The whole reason he’d become a foster parent was to help other kids avoid having those kinds of shared experiences.

“I used to have dreams like that, too.”

She lifted her head long enough to look at him from under her thick bangs, and then she looked at his feet.“What did you do?”

Luther definitely didn’t want to get into all of the negative ways he’d coped as a kid. That was in the past. But he could tell her about the ways he coped with life now.

“When I have bad dreams now, I exercise, or I go work in my studio. Those are things that make me feel better.” He let out a breath and thought how much he wished he could spend the day with Mila, but he’d signed on to work the art market on Treasure Island one weekend a month, and today was his first day. He’d gone over and parked his trailer in his spot the previous night, so he could scope the place out. He’d been a little nervous about registering to become a vendor, but once he’d stepped out of his truck and breathed in the San Francisco Bay breeze, he’d allowed himself the briefest moment of peace. The view of the San Francisco Bay at sunset was breathtaking, the weather was forecast to be mild, and he’d finally have a chance to see what—if any—kind of money he could make selling his wood paintings.

It had been his sister’s idea for him to try selling the art he usually reserved as gifts for his closest friends. Violet helped him research vendor opportunities, got him registered for this one, and helped him get everything set up to run a business. She volunteered to stay with Mila on the days he’d be at the fair. If he hadn’t already known how incredible his sister was, well…now he knew she was an absolute gift.

“I like to fix things,” Mila said quietly. She reached over and tentatively touched a tiny hole in the hem of his sweatpants. “My tummy feels better when things are all right.”

Luther’s own stomach clenched at her words. “Mine does, too. What do you think would make things all right this morning? ”

She glanced at him under her bangs. “I wish I could sew,” she nearly whispered. “I could fix your pants.”

Luther wanted to reach out and take her hand, but Miss Vanessa had suggested he wait for her to engage with him when she was ready. She’d been with him for six months now, and they’d made huge progress, but he was determined to do everything right so she could have a chance to heal. He wanted to make things safe for her, give her a place to find herself.

“These old things?” He tugged at the cuff and showed her the inside. She gasped at the barely attached threads. “Don’t you worry about these. I’ve had them since before I was in the Marines.” There was a hitch in his voice as he mentioned his previous calling. He cleared his throat. “If you tried to sew these holes, the material would likely disintegrate in your fingers. Auntie Violet will be up soon. She’s an expert at sewing.”

That got him a timid smile. “Would she teach me?”

“I’m sure she will. She taught me.”

Her eyes bugged out. “You know how to sew?”

Luther let out an exaggerated sigh. “Marines know everything, remember?”

She groaned and squeezed Terry tight. Then she turned him around and pointed to a seam on the critter’s back that was barely hanging on. “Do you think I can fix this?”

Poor Terry had been through it. Luther had gently tried to replace him, but every morning he’d find Mila’s arms wrapped around the beat-up pterodactyl. He was the only toy she’d been able to bring with her when Miss Vanessa took her from her unsafe situation, and Luther knew the two of them had seen some shit together.

“I do. Now,” Luther said, looking at where she still had a hand on her stomach. “What can we do to fix your tummy?”

She tilted her head as though it was a difficult decision, but Luther knew her answer.

“Pancakes?”

“As if it would be anything else. Come on,” he said, knowing that cutting his exercise time short would bite him in the ass later, but he was determined to give the world to this little girl, no matter the price he paid.

He managed to push himself up off the floor without cursing and he took it slow as he straightened his back, stretching his arms above his head.

Mila needed no prompting. She was out the door and humming on her way to the kitchen. Luther used his phone to start her playlist on the Echo in the kitchen and she squealed in delight, singing along to Etta James. His girls loved jazz, and since he’d give them just about anything they wanted, this special playlist was all they listened to.

Luther had just served Mila’s pancakes with bananas when Violet joined them in the kitchen. She was a night nurse in the ER and was usually getting home at this time. Today she was dressed in workout clothes and hadn’t bothered with her usual elaborate makeup and hair.

“Swapped shifts so I’d be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for Miss Thing this morning.” She stuck her chin out and waited for Luther to kiss her cheek before he slid a plate in front of her. “How are you this morning, Miss Mee-la-la?”

Mila giggled. “Good now. Auntie Violet? Can you teach me how to sew?”

Luther’s stomach finally unclenched as Violet turned and smiled at him.

“I’ve been dying for you to ask! Let’s eat, and then we’ll get started, little mama.”

Mila lifted her shoulders and grinned. She made eye contact with Luther for the briefest moment, but long enough for him to see the joy in her gaze.

This morning might have started off rough, but things had come around.

He had to keep the faith that they would continue to.

He took a lightning-fast shower, dressed, and packed up his painting kit in case he didn’t have customers, so he’d have something to do.

“I’ll be home around seven,” he said, cringing at how long the day would be. “Mila, make sure you listen to Auntie Violet, and if you’re both good, maybe I’ll bring home treats.”

He rarely kept sweets in the house, they were too much of a temptation for him, but he’d noticed that the spot next to his was a mini-donut vendor.

“Yes, sir,” Mila said, but instead of the soft-spoken voice full of fear she’d used when he first brought her to his house, her voice was bright, almost happy.

“I’ll be such a good girl,” Violet said, batting her long fake eyelashes at him. Violet had been placed in the boys’ home where Luther had been living when they were both freshmen in high school. On her first day there, Luther had stepped in when other kids started talking shit about her makeup. The foster system hadn’t known what to do with a trans kid back then, so Luther made it his job to educate the others on how to treat her. It hadn’t taken long for them to respect her, and she took care of them all at one point or another when the group home staff was too busy to do so. They’d bonded over that and many more experiences, and when they’d both turned eighteen, they’d gotten a place together.

She was the only family he had, until he’d decided it was time for him to give back and become a foster parent himself, and she agreed to support him however she could. Luther and Violet against the world. It was that way then, and it always would be.

He bent to kiss Violet’s cheek again, and then he stood next to Mila’s chair with his fist out. She’d typically gaze at it warily and then bump it with hers. This morning, she grabbed it with both hands, pulled it to her cheek, cuddling it for a second before she let it go to shove more pancakes into her mouth.

Slow and steady wins the race, soldier.

The drive from Hayward this early on a Saturday morning only took about twenty-five minutes. Luther parked his F-150 in the vendor parking lot in a handicapped spot, which he hated to do. He rarely used his placard, but his spot was quite a hike from the lot. Luckily, he’d been able leave his trailer at the back of his space so he didn’t have to cart all of his wares in. He carried a backpack with his money box and the lunch he’d thrown together this morning, along with two large water bottles. Staying hydrated was key.

It took him an hour to set up his canopy and hang the mesh panels he’d built to display his paintings. He had to take frequent breaks to stretch his back. He’d tried to use the lightest materials possible and found two lightweight aluminum tables for the inside of the booth that he covered with simple black tablecloths. He hoped his art would speak for itself.

He was just out the framed QR code signs that Violet had made for him, but when he opened his cash box, he realized the credit card reader he’d bought wasn’t inside.

This was a problem. He knew people didn’t carry cash much these days, and though Violet assured him the QR codes for the payment apps would do the work for him, he’d spent a lot of time figuring out the credit card reader.

He looked around his booth and sighed. He’d hoped to sell at least half of his paintings. Would this derail his plan?

What might derail his focus was the loud laughter and music playing from the booth next to his. Goth Dog Rescue ? He put his hands on his hips and peered through the mesh in between paintings to discover it was exactly what the sign said.

Dog collars and dog clothes. Dog treats. Dog bowls. All with a funny skull on them that had a mohawk. Huh. Then he spotted a large banner with pictures of dogs with handlers, a dog sitting in an airplane, and a QR code for donations to Goth Dog Rescue.

Luther swallowed back a swell of emotion.

It had been a long time since he’d been around a dog. Three years, to be exact.

A man and a woman chatted excitedly and sang along to…The Ramones?…as they set up the booth, which was way more elaborate than Luther’s. And when the guy turned around, Luther gasped.

The guy looked as if he’d be way more at home in a club than outdoors on a sunny day. With pale face makeup, elaborate black eye liner with glitter, black lipstick, and hair styled in a faux mohawk, he definitely fit the name and the artwork of their booth. His shirt was from a punk band, and his arms were covered with brightly colored tattoos Luther couldn’t make out from the distance between them.

They were toned arms, though, and they were attached to a guy who definitely looked like he spent at least some time at the gym. Luther sighed. It had been a long time since he’d seen the inside of a gym. Even longer than the last time he’d spent with a dog. He missed that life, some days more than others. His life now was focused on providing stability for Mila and for himself, maintaining what little mobility he had and keeping extra pounds off that would exacerbate his condition, rather than packing on the muscle and pushing himself to build endurance for when he was deployed?—

He suddenly remembered there was one more place he could look for the card reader. He hurried toward his cargo trailer, which he’d bought used from a Marine pal before his injury, to haul his motorcycle. He was glad to have it now, though the motorcycle was long gone. He could eventually kit it out and make a mobile sales trailer if he wanted. He climbed through the barn doors in the back and attempted to step over the wagon he’d packed just in case he needed to carry his things far and his leg decided…nah.

Not today, soldier.