As we gear up for the release of the Tracking Jane series, episode 1 (pre-order now!), I’ll share a preview of the first two chapters. I’m including Chapter 1 below, along with a brief synopsis.

Synopsis for Shadow-7

Army canine trainer and handler Jane McMurtry served in Afghanistan with her dog Shadow until an IED blew her legs away. Now, after learning to walk again, alongside a new canine companion, Jane is tracking the scent of kidnapped children in the Colorado high country when her past, her inner turmoil, and her current case collide.

Though Jane thought she’d have to wait two more years, Shadow returns home when he himself suffers injuries. Now two dogs and one woman will struggle to redeem and get on with their lives. In this struggle, Jane partners with a police officer who will make her face the choice between self-loathing and accepting someone’s patient, unconditional love.

In the back seat, Shady is stirring and whining. I may not give her much credit, but she’s smarter than she acts most days. Sensitive, too, enough to tell we’re getting close.

“Down, girl,” I tell her, but she doesn’t mind me, as usual.

Some of the boys back on base said it was because two “bees with itches” never get along. I should’ve reported that as sexual harassment to my CO, but I collected more satisfaction by popping the nose of the first and last jerk that said it to my face.

The Boulder, Colorado mountains around Eldorado Canyon State Park loom large, and I know I’m getting close too. To another job. To another chase. To another chance to prove to the world and to myself that I’m really back, all the way back, a full up functioning member of this society I no longer understand and struggle not to hate.

Scraping at her seat now, Shady is getting louder.

“If you tear that seat, I swear I’ll—”

Through the rear view mirror I see her eyes, attentive and fixed on me, as if to say, “What will you do to me, really?”

“Down, Shady girl,” I tell her again, calling her by the name I’m sure she hates since I changed it.

She used to go by Shadow-19. When I trained her, I came to believe she didn’t deserve that name, more so when she washed out of the program. I didn’t think she deserved it when they gave her to me as a therapy dog, my consolation price when I got back from my last tour. She’s no Shadow, not like the Shadow I left behind to keep fighting the war that tore me up.

I’m sure Shady will do fine today, though, like she did six months ago on a similar job not far from here, in Louisville, Colorado – that is, if this job turns out as I determined from the email I got from the police department. But truth is she doesn’t deserve the name Shadow. Not when she couldn’t find a pile of her own dung on most days, no matter how hard I’ve trained her.

Up ahead I see the dirt lot, now turned into a command center for the search and rescue Op. I see a lot of cars, some law enforcement, most civies, volunteers, probably. But I don’t see a lot of bodies. I’m guessing the bulk of the search party’s left already. That’s fine. I prefer to track alone.

Shady near knocks me off my everyday legs when I open the back door of my SUV. I stumble a bit but still manage to grab on to her collar to put her on the leash. Together we walk to the back of my 4Runner, where I tether her to the tow hitch.

I take a minute to steady my legs, until I remember these aren’t the ones that will carry me today.

I look around one more time. Doesn’t seem like anyone’s noticed my arrival. That’s also fine. What I’m about to do is best done alone, too, though I ain’t ashamed of doing it in public. In fact, I figure the more people that see it the better. They need to face the consequences of their nice, comfy lives, even if I’m the one that has to live with the grand total of what protecting the American way of life took from me.

I push the SUV’s hatchback up and sit on the lip of the trunk. After another look around, I roll my pant legs up to my knees. Now he appears. Out of the corner of my eye I see him, an officer striding toward me.

“You Jane McMurtry?” he’s shouting as he approaches.

“As seen on TV and the Internet,” I shout back.

I unlatch my left leg, slide off the sleeve, and just as he’s a few steps away, I drop it on the trunk with a nice dramatic thump.

“Do you need a minute?” he says now, respectful voice and all.

“What do you think?”

“I’ll come back.”

“I do need a minute,” I say. “That don’t mean you can’t watch if it turns you on.”

He stops, takes a step to his right, puts his hands on his hips, looks away, and I’m hearing my mother’s voice telling me I need to treat boys nicer.

“Trading my every day legs for my working ones,” I say by way of ice breaker. By now I’ve released my right leg, which I deposit rather than drop next to the left one.

From a skinny, black duffel bag of sorts, I go to pull my other set, telling him, “And these are them, the ones I use for special assignments.” I take one out, start working on the sleeve to ready it for mounting. “They’re sturdier, a feat of engineering for sure. Easy to balance on, too. Better for long walks like the one we’re about to take, but not so comfortable for everyday duty. Grind on you when you’re driving, too, so ain’t no way I was gonna wear them all the way clear down from Fort Collins.”

He nods, drops his arms, still unsure what to do with them, and ends up stuffing his hands into the pockets of his long canvas shorts. I allow myself a second to notice his muscular, lean calves. Only a second, though, before I go back to the job at hand.

He takes two steps toward me. “Are those the ones you’re training with? For the…” He clears his throat. “The Olympics?”

“Not for the Special Olympics, if that’s what you almost asked.”

Shady snorts at that, as if to back up my position on this particular matter.

I add, “I’m going for the real thing or none at all.”

“Like that guy from South Africa. That…” Another clearing of the throat. “That Blade Runner. Ran the 400, I think.”

“That he did,” I reply. “On them bouncy legs. Mine ain’t so blade-like, as you can see.” I slap the right leg, now fully attached. “But yeah, these are them.”

I start working on the left one. He waits for me, nice enough to stay quiet and not go on about the Olympics or mention all the buzz my Twitter feed’s been getting about me going for it, first American to really try it, war veteran to boot, the kind of stuff my agent just loves, loves to brag about. Even though I’m just going for the shot put.

I stand up and take a couple of steps, hand out. “Now that I’m all back in one piece, as it were, Jane McMurtry at your service.” I almost add “big boy,” but think better of it, even though even at my 6’ 1”, he still towers over me by a good two to three inches.

With a tepid smile, he says, “Deputy Murphy. Dan Murphy. Friends call me Danny.”

“Ain’t your friend yet,” I reply as I squeeze his hand. “But Shady and I will be glad to make your acquaintance as we work the job.”

“You from the south, Ms. McMurtry?”

“Nope. Just a Wyoming-Colorado hick.”

“Hmm,” he says, and I guess he’s thinking back to all them articles he’s probably read on me. According to them I’m an educated woman with an English degree plus all the training the Army could shove into me. On the cusp of my Master’s degree, someone Tweeted about me when defending my education and intellectual prowess.

“That’s right, Mr. Murphy. Just an ordinary hick. Don’t believe all you read. Education don’t make a man educated. Sometimes quite the opposite.”

His frown suggests he doesn’t appreciate that observation, like he’s on the cusp of something educational himself.

I grin at what I aim to say next. “On the other hand, women stand a much better chance. They tend to latch on and capture more. Something anatomical, I’m sure a crackpot expert will tell us some day. This one here standing before you, though? All hick.”

He points at Shady. “German Shepherd?”

“Twenty-four, seven, unfortunately.”

“I thought they were the best.”

For a moment, I consider whether to indulge yet another canine conversation, the kind where people go to picking my brain while spouting everything they think they already know.

“You Irish?” I ask him.

“About one fourth,” he says.

“Me too, so we’re making one of them connections already. Who knows? Friendship may be around the corner. I might even tell you what kind of beer I fancy.”

He smiles at that.

Realizing I’ve been holding it all this time, I let go of his hand and step back my SUV’s trunk. After I stash my everyday legs in the duffel bag, I retrieve my backpack. Doing one last check, I unzip it to make sure I got all I need. It’s packed for a one to two day hike. I’m not planning on it, but if I have to, in this weather, I can overnight it in the high country.

“You got your gear?” I ask him once I’ve hitched my bag on.

“Back at my car.”

“Well, let’s go, then.” I lock my SUV and take Shady’s leach. I can tell she’s about to lurch forward, so I tug back on her, saying, “Pfallow.” She minds me, for once, Dutch command and all.

“You trained her in the Army,” Murphy says. “Along with that other—”

“That’s right,” I say, cutting him off before the conversation goes to Shadow, or before I have to tell him Shady never made the cut, went into duty for the VA as a therapy dog instead, which I venture to wager she wasn’t much good at given her hyper temperament, and eventually landed with me when I came back on a wheelchair, some therapist’s bright idea of sweetening my re-entry into this thing we call society.

“Which one’s your car?” I ask before he has a chance to keep stoking his doggy curiosity.

He waves ahead at a white Tahoe with police markings and bubble lights up top. We reach it in another second. Without saying much else he grabs a light pack, lighter than mine, and points to the trail head. In his hand, he’s holding an evidence bag with a piece of clothing – a pink, studded blouse.

I take it, unzip the bag and bring the pink material to Shady’s snout. She sits and studies it, sniffing it. I look at her, especially her eyes, and this time she’s surprising me. Usually she attacks her marker, but for some reason she’s approaching this one with a care I’m not used to. It’s almost like she’s reading it, seeing in it something the rest of us can’t appreciate.

When I’m satisfied she’s got the scent, I hand the blouse back to Murphy, and he stuffs it back into the evidence bag. After putting that away, his hand comes out of his pack holding a Spiderman T-shirt. It’s small, I note, as he takes it out of its evidence bag.

“How young’s the boy?” I ask.

“Seven.”

I nod at that, look up at the mountains wondering which one’s holding him and his sister right now.

“Shouldn’t she smell his shirt, too?” Murphy asks.

“Best not. But bring it along just in case.”

I keep looking at the mountains. Even in August they seem cold and full of jagged cruelty, like other mountains I know. For a moment I wonder how close to the mountains I’ll have to get, whether I’ll have to climb them. The thought knots my insides, and I fight the urge to freeze. No more of that, I tell myself.

“They’ve been out there now one day, right?” I ask.

“And a night.”

I think on that. They didn’t call me straight away, thinking they could handle it on their own. That means more time out there for those kids, a colder trail for us, and fainter scents for Shady.

“Let’s get, then,” I say as Shady and I aim for the trail head.

Murphy catches up to us as we traverse the first, gradual rise. I gesture to him to walk behind us, and he gets it without instruction. Without explanation from him I guess he’s been in several of these chases, enough to know not to step in front of the dog.

We go a ways before he breaks the silence with, “Before we get too far into this, I just wanted to say what…” For the third time, his throat needs clearing.

He stammers the way people do when they want to say something nice and respectful, but their pride or their fear or their shyness or all of those things combined choke up what we should all say in the natural course of treating people like they ought to be treated. I’ve seen it before. In hospitals. In airports. At the grocery store. At the start of a Fourth of July parade. The good ones go to say it, and something catches in their throat. The hypocrites say something stupid, and the ones that would rather not think about it too hard smile at you, maybe, then look away like life is nothing but having nice jobs and tall houses and big cars and wafer thin cellphones with which they can be social with those they don’t give a flip about.

“I wanted to say what an honor it is to serve with you,” Murphy says. To his credit, he leaves it there. Simple, straight up, none of the syrup, all that needs stating, with the unsaid part still ringing loud and clear.

Still, I have to fight off the urge of replying with my cynical acid. “Thanks,” I say. “Hope I can help today.”

“If not today, then maybe tomorrow,” he says. “We got you for two days, right?”

“Yeah. Normally I’d linger longer if needed, but I got some business to tend to. Clear down all the way Texas, so lots of driving.”

“Oh? What’s down there?”

“An Army base,” I say. “Lackland. My home base, actually.”

“You still go down there?”

I could tell him I do, once a month, to check in with my VA shrink, even though I see a local shrink more regularly. I could also tell him I go down there to kibitz with my current CO, all part of a special arrangement I shouldn’t discuss outside official venues.

I opt for saying, “Don’t go down there often. Only as part of my reserve duty. This is a special occasion, though. A buddy of mine’s coming home. Wanna be there to give him a proper welcome.”

Murphy starts going on about how great it is to be there when vets come home. He’s asking about whether this is my buddy’s last tour. Something catches in my throat when I go tell him it is, and not by his choice or per the Army’s plan. But Shady interrupts us with a lunge forward, straining for a small bridge crossing over a creek.

At this point I would pull back and scold her, but I’m glad to trot after her and run away from the conversation.

The wood moans as we cross the bridge. Behind us Murphy’s asking whether Shady’s onto something. I’m thinking no, probably some critter’s got her attention. But then she stops. Just beyond the bridge she sniffs the air to her right, like she senses something in the bit of tan dirt that scurries under a thick bush to join the creek down below.

I look to my left, up trail, where a bunch of footprints and a couple of paw print patterns tell me which way the search party went.

“How many other dogs?” I ask.

“Two,” Murphy replies.

Not best, and I know a day after the fact, between wind and crews contaminating the scene, I ain’t got much of a hope. Well, not with Shady. Unless…

I nod. “OK.”

“She think they went down there?”

“Yeah, maybe.” I hesitate. Shady hasn’t proven trustworthy, not one hundred percent, and though I wouldn’t doubt a more reliable animal, I do now.

“Might make sense,” Murphy says. “Just the thing kids might do, go down to the creek to play.”

“Might be.” I lean down, cursing again my inability to crouch by my dog, the way I would like to. The way I used to.

Still, I bend down low enough to look into Shady’s eyes. She glances up at me for a moment before she returns her full attention to the bush and the patch of dirt under it.

“The parents said the kids normally went up this trail a bit,” Murphy said. “They would stay on the flat part, then turn around before it started climbing up. Always on trail. That’s where the search party’s been concentrating. There’s no trail down there, I guess is what I’m trying to say.”

When I don’t comment, he comes back with. “Is she a tracker or an air scent dog?”

Great, so he’s Googled himself an education on the difference between tracking and air scent dogs. He’s probably figured that since I had her take in the girl’s scent from an item of clothing, she’s a tracker. But he’s also probably picked up that Shady hasn’t done the whole job nose down to the ground. She’s sniffing the air, too, like an air scent dog would. Well, I guess I should give him credit for paying attention.

I don’t want to get into a discussion, so I just say, “She’s mostly tracking right now. But she can do both.”

“I thought they had to be trained to—”

I raise my hand to signal a stop. Shady’s still sniffing at the air between her and the bush. Is she tracking? Is she sniffing the air? Who cares. We’re on the job here. And Shady’s actually managing to stay on her best game so far.

“Good girl,” I whisper. I weigh my choices for another moment before I unleash her and give her the command to go. “Revier.”

To my surprise, she doesn’t jump out, but instead slinks her way under the bush and steps down the steep incline like a cat stalking prey. I hear her heavy snorts, taking whatever scent she’s grabbed onto for all she’s got. When I lose sight of her, I stump on back onto the bridge to watch her from there. I see her come out of the bushes, nose down, sniffing out the pebbled creek shore. She keeps that up for a minute or so, then hops forward, stops, does it some more.

That’s when it happens. She stands still, head raised and ears pointing straight up, nose sniffing at the mountains. She stays like that for a few moments and lurches forward into a full sprint.

“Steh Auf,” I shout now.

She stops and turns her head toward me. The way she looks at me, I know what’s coming next.

“Steh Auf,” I scream, letting my voice go shrill.

She takes off nonetheless, faster this time.

I try another command. “Bliff.” It’s no use. She’s gone.

“Dutch commands, right?” Murphy is saying as I rush past him. “Search and stand, right?”

“We have to get down there,” I tell him.

I stop to glance at him, and he’s looking at me. No doubt unable to help himself, his eyes scan my legs.

“Worry about not breaking your own neck, big boy,” I tell him. “I can handle myself.”