Honor by Janet Dailey Page A

going through the woods on a trail only he could follow. Suddenly she heard a noise behind her and turned to see the big dog emerging from the underbrush. He bounded over to greet her, metal tags jingling loudly.
    While she and Truck were saying good morning, Jim swung into the parking lot, calling to her through the open window of his jeep. “Kenzie, what a surprise. You’re here on time for once.”
    “Yes,” she called back. “It’s payday, right?”
    Jim laughed and pulled into his slot. He gathered up an armful of file folders and paperwork from the front seat and got out, heading for his office. “Dogs out?”
    “All the kennels were empty when I got here.”
    “Good. First drills start at nine sharp.”
    She found a tennis ball to toss for Truck for a while, giving Jim time to get inside, drink a cup of coffee, and plan the day’s training schedule at his computer.
    Over and over, Truck dropped the grubby ball carefully into her palm as if entrusting her with a priceless treasure. After twenty minutes or so, she threw it for the last time, hard and far, giving him a good run. Then Kenzie gave the big dog a farewell pat, sending him off on his customary patrol of the perimeter. He jingled away, eager to get to work.
    She opened the steel doors of the low building and walked through the cinder-block corridor that led to Jim’s office.
    He believed in order. There wasn’t a speck of dust or scrap of paper on the floor. Heavily padded bite sleeves hung from a rack on the wall and other training equipment was stored in lockers. Each trainer had their own—Jim allowed a certain amount of leeway for individual approaches. Training combat dogs was part science and part instinct.
    Playing with Truck in the fresh air had cleared her mind and helped her think of a tentative plan. She was going to ask for unpaid time off and limit the explanations to a short version of Christine’s accident.
    She memorized her talking points. Best friend. Bad accident. Seriously injured. Facing a long recovery. Naturally, Kenzie wanted to help however she could. That was enough.
    She peeked through the open door of her boss’s office. Jim Biggers glanced up at her over the half-glasses perched on the end of his nose. They didn’t go with his military-style haircut, but he was of the age where they were necessary.
    “What do you want? I don’t sign payroll checks until the afternoon,” he said sternly.
    She knew he was teasing, though not about when he did the signing. But Jim, a former supply sergeant, was a stickler for routine. He believed fervently that time was money, and he valued both equally.
    “I know,” she replied, glancing at the framed diplomas and citations hung on the wall behind him. After many months of employment, they still impressed her. Jim Biggers, a decorated Gulf War veteran, was a bona fide good ol’ boy, but he had a doctorate in biochemistry.
    He’d founded the kennel operation in between that war and the next, in Iraq. As Linc had said, the world was a lot more complicated than it had been back then.
    JB Kennels was a thriving business. He insisted on giving her credit for the recent uptick in profits whenever he had the opportunity.
    “Sit down. Talk to me,” he said, gesturing to a chair. He closed out the spreadsheet he had pulled up.
    After working with Kenzie for over a year, he was fairly good at reading her mind. Plus he had five kids and was impossible to lie to.
    Kenzie took the oak armchair across from his desk and sat, then turned when she heard the jingle of Truck’s tags. One of the trainers must have let him in—sometimes it wasn’t clear who was training whom. A moment later the dog was asking silently for permission to lie by Jim’s side.
    “At ease, Truck.” Her boss pointed to the floor and gave the dog a few seconds to settle down before he nodded to her to begin.
    It didn’t take Kenzie long to explain. Per plan, she didn’t tell him everything. His thoughtful gaze on