She hunkered down and pressed her palm against the wire cage. “Hey there, handsome.”
The dog stood and regarded her warily. He shifted his weight from paw to paw. He didn’t come forward to greet her, but neither did he bark aggressively or cower in the back of his pen. So far, so good.
She glanced up at Sheila. “Can I see his chart?”
Sheila passed it over. Chloe scanned it with a practiced eye. The dog was young, just eighteen months. Ninety-five pounds. A chocolate lab mix—maybe even a purebred, judging by his size and coat—neutered, all his immunizations up-to-date.
“Any behavior problems I should know about? Bite history?”
“Nothing reported, and I haven’t seen any aggression issues.”
“How about health? Is he on any meds?”
“Nope.” Sheila looked at the dog and her gaze softened. “This one’s as good as they come. I’d take him myself, if I could.” She sighed. “I’d take them all home, if I could.”
Chloe smiled. “One more dog and there won’t be any room left in your house for you or your husband.”
“True.” At sixty, Sheila was more than twice Chloe’s age. She should have been thinking about retirement. Instead, not only did Sheila work full-time at the shelter, she was fostering seven of the shelter’s hard-luck cases, dogs’ whose age or appearance rendered them less desirable for adoption. Everyone wanted a cute, cuddly puppy. The nervous strays, deaf seniors, and mangy mutts were always a hard sell.
Chloe stood. It was a bright Saturday morning. The air was crisp and fresh with signs of early fall. The sort of day that brought people out and about. As a result, the shelter was mobbed with visitors and volunteers. The atmosphere hovered just this side of controlled chaos.
“Is the evaluation room available?” she asked.
Sheila nodded and reached to unlock the kennel door. She swung it open and clipped a lead on the dog. “Good luck, boy,” she murmured, giving the dog an encouraging pat before heading back to her office.
Leash in hand, Chloe strode down the facility’s main aisle. She was greeted on all sides by the excited barks and whines of the other kenneled dogs. The chocolate lab remained alert to the attention, but did not react. A young girl of perhaps six or seven, visiting the shelter with her family, impulsively threw her arms around the lab’s neck to give him a hug. The chocolate leaned into the embrace and wagged his tail.
Good boy, Chloe encouraged silently, adding another positive mark to her ongoing appraisal of the dog.
The shelter’s evaluation room was a purely utilitarian space. It was on the smallish side, with plain white walls and worn wooden benches on opposing sides. The cement floors were painted battleship gray and had a small drain in the center to accommodate frequent hosing. The best part of the room was that it opened into an outdoor fenced courtyard (no bigger than Chloe’s kitchen), but it allowed dogs an opportunity to get some fresh air and enjoy the feel of grass beneath their paws.
Chloe dropped the lab’s lead and watched as he bolted outside. Not surprising. The allure of a stranger was minimal compared to the fascinating scents of an outdoor space that had been frequented by other canines—particularly for a dog that had been cooped up alone in a kennel.
She seated herself on one of the benches and watched the lab move. No obvious hip problems or joint weakness, she noted. His hearing seemed fine. When a car door slammed in the parking lot, he quirked an ear in that direction. Apparently sensing no threat, he returned to his business. His nose planted in the grass, he exhaled sharply, and then dragged in a deep, long sniff, collecting data about the dogs that had been there before him. He marked a small shrub, adding his own scent to the heady canine mixture, and then proudly tufted the grass with his rear legs.
Good enough, Chloe thought. Time to get to work.
“Here, boy,” she called. “Come.”
Remaining seated, she leaned forward slightly and wiggled her fingers, encouraging the dog to approach her. The majority of shelter dogs hadn’t had any formal training, so she wasn’t looking for an understanding of the command ‘come’. That could easily be taught. Rather, she wanted a dog with innate confidence, approachability, and—this was critical—a desire to please. Without that drive it was unlikely he’d ever make the cut as a service dog. A dog that ignored her, cowered in fear, or showed any sign of aggression could still find a happy home somewhere—just not with her. Fortunately the dog turned, regarding her curiously.
“C’mere, boy,” she coaxed. “Let me take a look at you.”
Giving a cautious wag of his tail, the dog trotted over. He sniffed her intently, and then nuzzled his wet nose into her lap. Chloe smiled and stroked his chest. “Well, hello to you, too. Aren’t you a friendly beast?”
Once she and the lab established a degree of comfort with each other, she spent the next fifteen minutes running through her evaluation. First, a standard physical assessment. The dog was a bit chubby, but not grossly overweight. Not enough exercise, she guessed. No sign of cataracts, his ears were clean and odor-free, and his teeth showed only mild evidence of tartar. Lightly running her hands over his body, she felt no bumps, abnormal swelling, signs of tenderness or other ‘ouchy’ areas. Rather than pulling away, he leaned into her, seemingly enjoying the massage. Another plus. The dog liked bodily contact.
She eased him into a down position and then rolled him onto his side to rub his belly. The lab calmly accepted the stroking. He didn’t stiffen, nor did he roll completely onto his back. Perfect. A dog that resisted the position might have too much Alpha in his personality. On the other end of the spectrum, a dog that was too submissive and meekly rolled over wouldn’t work either. A service dog needed that perfect Goldilocks temperament: not so dominate that it wouldn’t take orders, but not so submissive that it was afraid to make decisions on its own.
Chloe gave him a final pat and rose to her feet. “All right, boy. Let’s play.”
She moved jauntily about the yard, seeing if the dog would follow her. He did. She gave a modified play bow. He happily returned it. Abrupt, awkward movements (the sort of movement someone using crutches or suffering from a degenerative muscular disease might make) didn’t startle him. She tossed a rubber toy across the grass. He retrieved the toy and returned it to her, dropping it without too much coaxing.
Chloe played with him for a little bit longer, but just for fun. The test was over. She’d already made up her mind. This one was definitely coming home with her.
Home. The word startled her. When did she start to consider the sprawling Hudson Valley Canine Assistance Camp, the nonprofit organization formed to take unwanted, abandoned shelter dogs and train them to be service dogs, as home? Home had always been New York City. The noise, the crowds, the excitement. Home had been walking the halls of St. Mark’s Hospital in lower Manhattan. Home had been the Tribeca loft she shared with—
Nope. Not today. She wouldn’t think about that today. She abruptly pushed away that painful train of thought and reached for the dog’s lead. They left the evaluation room and made their way through the shelter, heading to Sheila’s office to fill out the adoption paperwork.
“I knew the moment he came in that you’d fall for him,” Sheila quipped. “What are you going to name him?”
Chloe crouched down and rubbed the chocolate lab’s chest. “I thought Marley might work.”
“Marley?” Sheila quirked a brow. “After that dog in that movie? That untrained beast who wreaked havoc everywhere he went?”
“Nope.” Chloe smiled and shook her head. “Marley as in ‘Bob’. The laid-back reggae artist. This boy’s pretty mellow.”
“He is, indeed,” Sheila agreed. “I think that name suits him just fine.” Her eyes misted up as she finished the paperwork and gave Marley a farewell pat. Despite her gruff exterior, saying good-bye was always hard for her. “Hear that, boy? Marley. You’re a rock star now, and that means you’ve got a job to do. Go on, then. Get out there and make this world a bett
er place.”
Chapter Three
Chloe left the shelter with Marley and headed north on the Taconic Parkway. Although she drove the divided parkway nearly every day, she never tired of its rolling farmland and scenic beauty. As she crested a hill before her exit, the Hudson Valley spread out before her in all its early autumn glory. Although the grass remained lush and green, several of the oaks, maples, and sumacs had begun to flash the showy reds and gold of autumn.
Off the parkway to her left was a picturesque fishing pond surrounded by tall reeds that blew gently in the late morning breeze. A rowboat bobbed against a floating dock. To her right sat an enormous apple orchard. A countdown calendar mounted on a billboard facing the parkway announced to passing motorists how many more days the orchard would be open for public picking.
She took the next exit off the parkway, sending her Subaru wagon skirting along a frontage road until she reached her destination. The Hudson Valley Canine Assistance Camp was a sprawling, twenty acre training facility for service dogs. The property had been designed and built in the ‘50s as a motor inn to serve the tourist trade. For years it had been a lively spot. But the tourist trade slowly dwindled and the original owners grew old, eventually abandoning the property when they were no longer able to afford the upkeep.
Sara Porter, owner of the camp, picked up the property at a foreclosure auction. Undaunted by the amount of work that the place needed, she’d paid off the back taxes and moved in.
A large, mildly dilapidated farmhouse greeted visitors to the property. This main building served as office, veterinary clinic, and Sara’s home. Tucked behind the farmhouse were twelve individual camping cabins. Generations ago these cabins had housed families who’d come to the valley to enjoy fishing, hiking, horseback riding, and other outdoor activities. Now the cabins on the eastern end of the property served as staff lodging. The cabins on the west (more spacious and better maintained) were reserved for guests of the camp—those who came in hopes of finding a service dog for themselves or someone they loved. But the main additions to the grounds were the state-of-the-art kennels and training rings.
Chloe swung her Subaru into an open spot near the kennels and parked. She glanced in her rearview. Marley had made the trip from the shelter to the camp in a sturdy crate in the back of her wagon. For the most part he’d been calm and relaxed, content to simply sniff the passing breeze. Now he stood entirely still, his posture alert and aware.
No wonder. Hard to imagine the myriad of scents that must be bombarding him. The camp housed thirty dogs at present—soon to be thirty-one, with Marley. She swung open the back hatch, opened the crate door, and clipped a lead on the lab. She led him into one of the fenced-in rings where a trainer was working with a bright young Border collie mix named J.J.
The collie was ready to be added to the list of service dogs available for pairing with a human partner. She was smart, calm, and thoroughly focused on her trainer—despite the formidable distraction of a strange new dog entering the ring. Chloe let out a wistful sigh and patted the dog beside her. It would take Marley six months to a year to attain J.J.’s level of readiness, if he achieved it at all. Many dogs washed out early.
After they finished their exercises, the trainer allowed J.J. a bit of play time. With her tail gently swaying and her head held high, the Border collie approached the new arrival. After the dogs exchanged a few introductory sniffs, Luke, the trainer, tossed a rubber ball and the dogs sprinted after it.
Chloe leaned against the fence to watch them play. Luke joined her. “Looks like you found another winner,” he said after a few minutes.
“I hope so.”
A strong gust of wind blew past them. Chloe brushed her windblown hair out of her face and glanced up at the sky. A bank of thick gray clouds was sweeping in from the west. “Storm’s coming,” she remarked.
She glanced back to Luke, but instead of watching the sky, his gaze was fixed on her. Their eyes met, and she froze at the unmistakable glint of appreciation she read there. Rather than glance away, his gaze lingered.
“A few of us are heading into town later,” he said. “Thought we’d grab a few drinks, shoot a little pool at Charlie’s before the next round of guests get in. Maybe you’d like to join us.”
Pleasure, mixed with a hefty dose of surprise, coursed through her. The invitation caught her completely off-guard. It had been ages since a man had flirted with her. Even longer since she thought of herself as someone who a man might want to flirt with.
She hesitated, considering both the man and the invitation. Luke was good-looking, no doubt about that. Tall and muscular, with a shock of dark blond hair and laughing green eyes. A strong jaw offset by playful dimples. He wasn’t offering a relationship—that much she knew for certain. They’d worked together for over a year, and she’d seen too many women file through his cabin to believe he was proposing anything more than a temporary fling.
Not her style. Never had been. But then again… why not? He was attractive. Charming. Available.
Chloe drew in a breath and considered. Now that she thought about it, it occurred to her that all those women had looked pretty damned satisfied when they left Luke’s cabin the next morning. She hadn’t been with a man, any man, since her break-up with Jeff. Maybe it was time. She knew plenty of other women who used men purely for physical pleasure. Sex for sex’s sake. No strings attached. It might even be good for her. If nothing else, it was a way to burn off a few extra calories. Better than the gym.
He cocked one dark blond brow and looked at her. “Something I said?”
“No.” She bit her lower lip, barely restraining her embarrassed laughter. “No. It’s not you, it’s me.”
He groaned. “Did you really just say that?”
“What?”
“’It’s not you, it’s me.’ Worse rejection ever.” He clutched his chest. “I’m crushed.”
She didn’t miss the teasing light in his eyes. “No, you’re not. You’re just amazed that any woman would ever turn you down.”
“I am pretty irresistible, aren’t I?”
She chuckled, and this time he joined her. But once again, as their laughter died, his gaze lingered.
“So maybe that’s not a ‘no’?” he said, his voice husky with invitation.
Hmmm. Chloe reconsidered. A good-looking, intelligent, charming guy blessed with deep dimples and a great ass. Check, check, check. She could definitely do worse.
“Maybe it’s a maybe.”
He inched closer. “Best ‘maybe’ I ever heard.”
A strong gust of wind blew again, sending a burst of autumn leaves scattering across the ring. The scent of rain hung heavy in the air. Chloe took a step away, desperate to put her muddled thoughts back in order. “We should get out of here before the storm breaks,” she said. “When you take J.J. in, would you mind finding a kennel for Marley? I’ve got to turn in his paperwork and set up a file for him.”
“No problem.” He whistled for the dogs and they both came loping toward him. “Don’t forget,” he called over his shoulder. “Charlie’s. Eight o’clock.”
Still unsure, Chloe sent him a small smile but didn’t reply. Maybe.
* * *
Chloe left the ring and made her way back to the main office. She found Sara Porter sitting at the front desk, her brow furrowed as she rifled through the day’s mail. Lounging on the floor beside her was Bowie, her German shepherd and personal pet. Chloe had never seen Sara go anywhere without him by her side. Alerted by the opening of the door, Bowie sat up, only to resettle himself with a contented huff once he recognized Chloe.
“Hey there,” Sara greeted her. “I saw you pull in. Sweet lab. Which shelter did he come from?”
“The one over on Lancaster Street.”
“Great. I’ll send them a thank you note.”
Chloe’s gaze swept over her boss. Even dressed as she was in jeans and an emerald green sweater, wearing only the barest hint of make-up, her caramel-colored ha
ir twisted into a careless knot at the nape of her neck, Sara Porter was a stunning woman.
Exactly the sort of woman her former fiancé would have gaped at had they passed her on the street in New York City. The sort of woman that would have elicited an endless round of ego-crushing questions from Jeff:
Did you see the way she did her hair? Not like yours—longer, looser layers.
Notice how much sexier a trench coat can be with the right scarf?
Have you ever tried boots like that? Well, obviously you can’t wear high-heeled boots while you’re making your rounds, Chloe. I’m talking about weekends, when you’re off-duty.
I’ll bet if you skipped a few desserts and spent a little more time working out, your body would be just as good.
What? I’m just trying to help you, Chloe. Why do you have to get so defensive all the time?
Chloe pushed away the imaginary stream of nagging questions. She would not resent the other woman’s effortless beauty. Not only was Sara her boss, she was a highly decent, albeit private person. Totally committed to the work they were doing. They talked for a few minutes about Marley, and then Chloe nodded at the papers strewn across Sara’s desk. “Anything new?” she asked.
“You mean, besides bills?” Sara gave a rueful smile.
The Hudson Valley Canine Assistance Camp, a nonprofit corporation, operated on a shoestring budget. The cost of training a single service dog amounted to roughly $20,000 when all expenses (veterinary care, kennels, food, equipment, facility taxes and maintenance, staff housing and salaries, and guest lodging) were factored in.
Courting Chloe (Hudson Valley Heroes Book 1) Page 2
