Courting Chloe (Hudson Valley Heroes Book 1)

by Victoria Lynne

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Chloe cried, as if suddenly remembering the cue. “I know, I know. Here’s what I meant to say: Prince, Greet.”

  The retriever obediently sat, lifted his right paw, and extended it toward Preston.

  Preston considered Prince for a long moment. Then his shy, pleased smile returned. “Okay,” he said softly. “I guess we can be friends.” He reached out and lightly shook the dog’s paw.

  Prince quivered with pleasure, his tail wagging frantically, his big brown eyes brimming with adoration. Chloe’s heart gave a happy twist. After lunch they would rotate through the remaining four pediatric canine candidates, but as far as she was concerned, the choice had just been made.

  Sometimes it took an entire week to narrow the field down to the one or two dogs that were the most suitable. Sometimes it was love at first pet.

  Chapter Eight

  Ian hung up his phone, stowed it in his pocket, and glanced toward the training ring. He’d stepped away in deference to one of the camp’s inviolable rules: the ring was a tech-free zone. No cell phones, laptops, hand-held games, or other devices that would detract from the business of working with the dogs were allowed.

  It was late Friday afternoon, almost quitting time. He’d paused beneath the deep golden leaves of a mature poplar. He’d only been gone for fifteen minutes—rarely did he leave Preston’s side for longer than that—but in the interim their daily routine had dramatically changed.

  When he’d left, Chloe had been working one-on-one with Preston, teaching him the proper way to guide Prince on a leash. Matt and his family had been on the opposite end of the ring working on retrieval exercises with a bright young Staffordshire terrier mix. Now Matt and his family were absent. Having taken their place in the ring was Angie, the attractive brunette with MS, three of her canine candidates and her trainer, Sara. Joining them was Chuck, the Iraq war veteran, his canine candidates, and his trainer, Luke.

  Luke. Ian fought back a surge of annoyance. He was a decent enough guy, Ian supposed. And yet he couldn’t help but resent his presence there. He considered Ring Three his space. Reserved for him, Preston, Chloe, Matt, Matt’s parents, and their trainer, Joe. The sudden change unsettled him. It couldn’t be good for Preston, either. His nephew needed structure, calm, and consistency. His gaze moved to Preston, as though seeking to validate that thought. But unlike him, the boy appeared to be taking the interruption to their routine in stride and was happily engaged watching Prince romp with the other dogs.

  Huh. Ian was about to return to the ring when the sound of rustling leaves alerted him that he had company. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Matt wheeling his chair toward him, his Staffordshire terrier trotting by his side. Another first. Ian had spoken to Matt’s parents (in that brittle, strained, ‘we’re all in this together’ bullshit speak that guardians of disabled kids seemed to prefer, but Ian privately loathed), but he and the teen had rarely exchanged anything more than a curt nod and a quick ‘morning’. Apparently that was going to change, too.

  “Hey,” Matt said, gliding to a stop beside him.

  “Hey,” Ian returned.

  “What’s up?”

  “Not much.”

  Matt nodded and scanned the three working rings. “Hudson Valley Canine Assistance Camp,” he said with a disdainful snort. “They oughta change the name to The Place You Come When Your Life Totally and Completely Sucks. Just look around. Everyone here is a total freak, including me.”

  Ian arched a reproving brow. “I don’t consider myself a freak, and neither is my nephew.”

  The teen shrugged. “I guess it’s just me then.” His pale brown hair was too long. It constantly flopped in his eyes, necessitating an endless head-tossing motion. He wore torn jeans, combat boots, a vintage black leather jacket that was two sizes too large, and a pair of black leather gloves fitted with tiny silver spikes at each knuckle. Ian gave an inward shudder. Was the punk look back already? Barbara would have known. Hell, Barbara and Matt would probably be fast friends by now. Ian couldn’t even figure out how to carry on a conversation with the kid.

  Matt cracked his knuckles, then tilted his chin toward Preston. “What’s wrong with the little dude, anyway?”

  “Car accident. His brain was injured. Now he suffers from random, violent seizures.”

  “Oh, yeah? That sucks.”

  “Yeah, it really does.”

  “Is that gonna be for the rest of his life? Like me and this chair?”

  “The doctors can’t say for sure. Maybe.”

  “Hmm. That sucks, too.” Matt idly rocked his wheelchair back and forth, thinking things over. “So that’s gonna be his dog? Prince?”

  Ian returned his attention to the ring. Prince was stretched out at Preston’s feet, tongue lolling, his jaw relaxed in what appeared to be the canine equivalent of a satisfied smile for day’s work well done. “Looks like it,” he replied. He tilted his head toward the muscular brindle standing beside Matt’s wheelchair. “What about you two?”

  Matt reached down and gave the dog a one-armed hug. “Yeah, I figure I might as well keep him. I mean, who else would want this ugly beast?”

  “That one’s Billy, right?”

  “Billy?” Matt grimaced. “Hell no. I mean, that’s the name they gave him here, but there’s no way I’m calling him that. Billy Idol. Give me a break. His music—”

  “Let me guess: sucks.”

  Matt paused. “I guess I do say that a lot.” He thought for a moment, then shot Ian a conspiratorial grin. “It drives my parents totally batshit.”

  That was it. Ian hadn’t been able to put his finger on it, but now he realized that was what was missing. Normally Matt’s parents stuck closer to their son than his own shadow. He glanced around, surprised.

  “I ditched ‘em,” Matt confirmed, correctly interpreting the look. “I bet they’re in full panic mode by now. Probably convinced I fell out of my chair and can’t get up, or some shit. Like I’m totally helpless without them.” He worked his knuckles again, cracking them loudly—a habit Ian was coming to understand was used to soothe his nerves. Everything about the kid was twitchy. “I’m seventeen. What do they think? They’re going to follow me everywhere I go for the rest of my life?”

  “Maybe they just care about—”

  “Screw that. I mean, I get that, but the worst thing that could happen to me already has. It’s too late. Hello! Look, everybody! I’m the freak in a wheelchair! Yeah, I made a stupid mistake. But that doesn’t mean I have to be the freak in the wheelchair whose parents follow him everywhere he goes.” Matt worked his jaw, his youthful face—not even a hint of a whisker yet—contorted with bitterness. “I’m seventeen. Seven-fucking-teen.”

  Ian waited a beat, considering his response. There didn’t seem to be a good one. Telling the kid he wasn’t a freak, while true, would only come off as patronizing. He was similarly out of his depth when it came to rationalizing Matt’s parents’ behavior. Convincing the teen that his parents clung to him so closely because they really cared was so outside his realm of experience he wasn’t sure he could pull it off. So he veered the conversation in an entirely different direction.

  “You ditched them, huh? What’d you do—outrun ‘em?”

  Shocked surprise flitted across Matt’s face, then he gave a rough laugh. He tossed back his hair and smiled. “Very funny. Screw you, too.”

  The teen’s emotional peaks and valleys reminded Ian of a rollercoaster. Would Preston be like that one day? God, he hoped not. He was already exhausted, and they’d spent less than five minutes talking.

  “Hey. Watch this.” Moving abruptly, Matt drew his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and lightly chucked it on the ground. The pit bull dove for it, clamped his strong jaws around the instrument, and then gently dropped it in Matt’s lap. “Cool, huh? Joe sent my parents into town to run an errand. They need to find me a new phone case. Preferably one that’s slobber-proof.”

  As he spoke, he used h
is jeans to wipe the drool from his phone. He reached into the nylon bag affixed to the arm of his chair and fed the dog a few treats, praising and stroking him as he did. “Good boy,” he said. “Good Get It.”

  “What are you calling him?” Ian asked.

  Matt tossed the last treat in the air, smiling as the dog snatched it up. Then he grimaced and fanned the air in front of his face. “He should be Hal, as in Halitosis.” He shrugged. “Joe said I could change his name, but it had to be something related to music, and something that sounded like Billy, so I wouldn’t confuse him.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Yeah. So I’m going with Beastie, as in the Beastie Boys. Now their music totally kicks ass. Plus, the name suits him. Isn’t that right, Beastie?” A mischievous light entered Matt’s eyes. He paused, glancing at Ian. “Want to see his latest trick?”

  “Sure.”

  Matt leaned forward and made a looping motion with his index finger. “Hey, Beastie, Show Off Your Balls.” The dog obediently went into a Down, rolled onto his back and rocked back and forth for a moment, then sprang back up and waited for his treat. Matt obligingly provided a few more kibble bits, and then grinned up at Ian. “It’s supposed to be Roll Over, but what can I say, the guy’s got a set.”

  “Good to see you’re using your time here productively.”

  “Joe doesn’t mind, as long as we’re working. He’s actually pretty Zen about everything. He reminds me a little bit of Beastie here. He looks like a bad ass, but underneath it he’s a total softie.”

  Ian swung his gaze back to the training ring. He’d meant to check on Preston, but his attention was arrested instead by Chloe. She was leaning against the rail, laughing at something Luke said. Her head was tilted back, exposing the long column of her throat. The slanting sunlight added a rich coppery sheen to her hair. She’d been working hard all day, and her exertion showed—her skin fairly glowed.

  Ian felt his breath catch. Mine. That single word reverberated through him. Once again, he battled a desperate urge to touch her in some way. Nothing too obvious. Just the briefest of contact—the brush of his shoulder against hers, the touch of his hand on top of her arm. Something.

  Luke caught his glance. He held Ian’s gaze for a second, and then, with a look that could only be described as satisfied smirk, shifted forward and snaked his arm around Chloe to whisper something in her ear.

  Ian shifted. His hands fisted, but he caught the motion and forced himself to relax. Unclench. Absolutely not. He would not engage in any macho bullshit. He’d spent too many years working bars to allow himself to be baited into a testosterone-fueled game of Let’s Piss Off The Bouncer. That said, he did enjoy watching as Chloe pulled back and gave Luke a friendly, but advance-deflecting smile.

  Matt cracked his knuckles. “You should kick his ass.”

  “What?”

  “You should totally get in there and kick his ass.” He sized up Ian, and then gave a curt nod. “You could do it, too.”

  Ian didn’t miss the wistfulness in Matt’s gaze, the boy’s fleeting acknowledgement of what he might have been if not for the accident that put him in his wheelchair. A better man would have addressed that. But since Ian wasn’t a better man, and God knew he was hardly in a position to give life lessons (just look at the train wreck he’d made of his own life) he took the easy way out. He leaned his shoulder against the poplar’s smooth trunk and folded his arms across his chest, regarding Matt steadily.

  “Now why would I want to do that?”

  “C’mon, man,” the teen scoffed, “I’ve seen you two together. It’s pretty obvious that—” He broke off abruptly and glanced to his left. “Oh, shit. Here come my parents. I gotta hide. See ya.”

  Ian watched Matt wheel his chair away, Beastie trotting companionably by his side. It’s pretty obvious that what? he wondered. He didn’t have time to pursue the train of thought, which was probably just as well. Better to forgo the adolescent fantasies. Matt might still be in high school, but he definitely wasn’t.

  Chloe, Preston, and Prince left the training ring and walked toward him. Actually, Preston and Prince bounded toward him, radiating happy energy, while Chloe followed a step or two behind them. That was new, too, Ian thought. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Preston so relaxed—acting like a normal, healthy, seven-year-old boy.

  “Guess what, Uncle Ian? Chloe says that Prince can come home with us and even sleep in my room tonight!”

  “Is that right?” his gaze flicked to Chloe.

  “Yep.” She smiled. “It’s a pretty big step, but I think we’re good to go. Preston and Prince. Sounds like a good team, doesn’t it?”

  “Hear that? We get to keep him!” Preston stood with his arms wrapped around Prince’s neck, his excitement palpable. Adoration for the dog shone in his eyes.

  Ian absorbed the news, even enjoyed it for a second or two, before doubt and tension, his ever-faithful companions, settled on his shoulders like fifty pound weights. Uneasiness swirled through his gut. His mistake, unforeseen until that instant, was suddenly glaringly obvious. He’d come here expecting to find a service animal and take it home. In his mind, that dog would be nothing more than a medical tool, a useful extension of Preston’s treatment. Obviously there was an emotional component he hadn’t considered.

  What if this didn’t work? What if Prince wasn’t the right dog for him? What if he was just setting Preston up for another loss? That would only lead to more disappointment, more heartache.

  “Just like that, huh?” he said, looking at Chloe. “Prince is the one? Shouldn’t we try out more dogs?”

  “I guess we could, but I don’t think it’s necessary. I like what I see between these two.”

  He mulled that over, studying the dog with more than a little concern. “What is he, anyway?”

  “You mean his breed? Retriever mix, but that’s just a guess.” Smiling, she bent down and stroked Prince’s chest. “Prince is one of the special ones,” she said. “Sara and Bowie found him at the transfer station outside of town, rummaging through a dumpster for food. Poor thing was such a mess—covered with fleas and ticks, scratches, and so skinny… just pitiful. Sara brought him back here and cleaned him up, intending to fatten him up before turning him over to the local shelter.”

  “But she kept him instead,” Ian finished with a shrug. “A free dog for the program.”

  Her brows snapped together. “In the first place, there’s no such thing as a free dog. Each canine assistant we graduate requires thousands of dollars in training, food, shelter, and veterinary bills. Secondly, most dogs don’t have what it takes to make it through the program. Prince is here because he’s smart as a whip, loyal, agile, devoted, and ready to work. There are no shortcuts.” She let out a breath and straightened her shoulders. “If you’re looking for a perfect match, I’m afraid I can’t guarantee it. It’s an imperfect world.”

  Although passionate, her response struck Ian as thoroughly inadequate. He’d made a hundred thousand dollar investment. Now she was telling him some mutt they’d found behind a dumpster would solve Preston’s issues? He was about to say as much when he felt a subtle pressure at about knee height. He glanced down. As though sensing he was the only member of the group he hadn’t yet won over, Prince shifted his weight against Ian’s leg and gazed up at him. Something that looked remarkably like hope shone in the dog’s soulful brown eyes.

  Ian frowned. “What’s the command for Down?”

  Chloe showed him the motion—a quick downward bend of her forearm, index finger pointed toward the ground—and Prince settled instantly. “Good boy,” she praised. She fed him a treat, and then returned her attention to Ian. “Remember, it’s a cue, not a command.”

  “Semantics,” he retorted, brushing off her objection.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “What’s sematics mean?” Preston asked.

  “Semantics,” Chloe corrected, “and that means using one word in place of another word
that has a similar meaning. Like stream and creek, or angry and mad.”

  “Exactly. Like cue and command,” he put in.

  “No. Not at all.”

  To his way of thinking it was a petty point, but she wasn’t giving in. Just the opposite was true. She was digging in. For some unfathomable reason, it seemed essential to her that he understand the difference. Annoyance rippled through him. “All right,” he sighed. “Enlighten me. What’s the difference?”

  “Between cue and command? For a service dog, the difference is enormous. Absolutely vital, in fact.” If she heard the biting edge to his voice, she was gracious enough to ignore it.

  A small smile curved her lips and her warm brown eyes were lit with sparks of lively copper. She was no longer agitated, but fully animated, caught up in her thoughts. Her excitement was palpable—as though she was about to share some wonderful secret that only she knew. Maybe that was what he found so attractive about her. Chloe Edmonds’ appeal went well beyond her physical appearance. She radiated feminine fortitude, kindness, and conviction. She caught his attention and held it in a way other women never had.

  That said, she wasn’t his typical type. She wasn’t tall, wasn’t blond, wasn’t supermodel striking. But there was something about her… something so compelling he found it hard to take his eyes off her. Maybe it was the way she spoke, or the way she moved. Ian watched as she lifted her hands to brush back her hair. Her breasts shifted beneath her t-shirt. He pictured Chloe naked. Delicate ribs, tight waist, slim hips, graceful thighs. Her nipples the same lush cherry hue as her lips, so deliciously ripe and ready for him to take into his mouth—

  Fuck. What was he thinking? Ian forced his attention back to the conversation at hand.

  “Dogs aren’t robots,” she said. Unlike him, her thoughts had remained on track. “They’re living, feeling, sentient creatures. Every dog here is being trained to work. To serve his person. To that end, we constantly look for and reward Intelligent Disobedience.”

  “Intelligent Disobedience?”