by Teri Wilson
Someone cleared his throat. Brock tore his gaze from Anya and realized it was Cole.
“What about Anya?” Cole asked, jerking his head toward her. “The dog certainly seems to like her.”
Indeed, Sherlock was on his back writhing in ecstasy at Anya’s feet, sending snow flying in every direction.
Brock shook his head. All that hand-feeding and reading aloud had created a bit of a monster. Sherlock’s doggy crush aside, Anya acting as his handler wasn’t the best idea. The dog needed to start bonding with whoever would act as his permanent partner. That, of course, was a problem, because he didn’t have a permanent partner yet.
“All right,” Brock said. “Anya will work with Sherlock.”
The dog leapt to his feet and leaned against her legs in a posture that clearly said Mine. Once again, Brock found himself fighting off an uncomfortable sensation he didn’t want to admit was jealousy.
“Let’s begin,” he said, wishing desperately that he could focus solely on the task at hand. He pulled two knotted rope toys from his pockets and tossed one to Anya and the other to Jackson. “These will be the rewards for the dogs when they find you. Once you’ve been located, offer your dog loads of praise and play tug of war with them for a few seconds. We want the experience to be as positive and fun as possible for them.”
“Then shouldn’t we offer them food or treats instead of just praise?” Jackson asked.
Brock shook his head. “No. Good question, though. We don’t train with food because we’re teaching the dogs to search for human scent—the scent of survivors buried under the snow pack. If we train with food, the dogs will become conditioned to search for the scent of treats instead of victims.”
Cole nodded. “That makes sense.”
“The favored reward for search and rescue work is play and praise. Lots of it.” Brock aimed his gaze at Jackson and Anya. “When your dog finds you, be enthusiastic. Throw an all-out party. Got it?”
“Got it,” Jackson said.
Anya nodded, grinning from ear to ear. Brock had never seen anyone so excited about the idea of hiding in a snow trench. He’d known she’d be the right choice to help with training. Her enthusiasm mirrored his own passion for search work. Seeing her in action brought out the teacher in him, and it was almost enough to make him forget about the color of her eyes.
Emphasis on almost.
He pointed to Cole and Luke. “Okay, you two are going to hold onto the dogs while Anya and Jackson hide.”
Brock showed them each how to grasp Aspen and Sherlock’s collars with an underhand grip and instructed them to hang on tight.
“We’re going to do this one at a time. Anya, you’re up first. You ready?” he asked.
“I sure am.” The wind whipped between them, sending the hair that tumbled down her back flying in all directions. Brock had to stop himself from reaching out and sweeping a lock of it from her eyes.
He jammed his hands in his pockets. Just in case. “I want you to shower some affection on Sherlock. Get him good and excited. Make him go bonkers. Then tell him to come find you before you head for the trench.”
“Now?”
“Yup.” He took a step out of the way.
Then there was little to do but watch as she did exactly as he said. It didn’t take much for her to get Sherlock excited about the search. She gave him a good scratch behind the ears, and he immediately started tugging against Cole’s grip, lunging and bouncing on his hind legs in an attempt to get to her. By the time she started asking him if he wanted to come find her, Sherlock looked as though he might jerk Cole’s arm right out of its socket.
Brock watched Anya run up the hill, her feet sinking deeper in the snow with each step. Sherlock’s barks grew louder and more urgent, bouncing off the surrounding evergreens when Anya disappeared into the trench.
Brock gave her a few seconds to get settled before he gave Cole a silent signal to release Sherlock. Once free, the dog made a beeline for the deep burrow in the snow where Anya waited to be found. Even though it was a good thirty feet away, Brock could hear her praising Sherlock and telling him what a good boy he was, loud and clear from inside the confines of the snowy trough.
Cole’s eyebrows rose in obvious surprise. “Wow. That was impressive.”
“Yes.” Brock nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, it was.”
His throat grew scratchy, and he blinked hard against the snow flurries hitting his eyes. The swell of pride that hit him square in the chest took him by surprise. Although its cause did not.
She was a natural, as he’d thought she would be.
He just hoped Sherlock would work as hard to find a real victim.
* * *
The next morning Anya did something she’d never done before. Just a day after her triumphant training session with Sherlock, Anya Petrova—barista extraordinaire—burned the coffee.
What in the world?
She stared into the pot of Alaska Klondike Roast and winced at the brown sludge stuck to the bottom, wondering how it had happened.
“What’s that smell?” Zoey asked as she leaned over Anya’s shoulder and peered at the coffeepot.
Anya hadn’t even taken note of her arrival. Was her head that far up in the clouds?
Apparently so.
“Nothing.” She plunged the coffeepot under the faucet and flipped on the hot water before Zoey could see the mess she’d made.
Too late. “I never thought I’d see the day you burned the coffee.” Zoey shook her head in disbelief.
Anya could hardly blame her. She couldn’t believe it either. “I’m sorry.”
Zoey frowned. “Why are you apologizing? You’re the boss around here. Remember?”
She sighed. “I suppose I am.”
Zoey reached around her to squirt some soap in the coffeepot, then gave her arm a comforting squeeze. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. We all make mistakes.”
“Never before.” She shook her head. “Not here.”
Making coffee was her thing. She’d always been great at it. Not that it was all that difficult, but still. Zoey went to work scrubbing the pot for her, which made her feel even worse.
“You’ve been somewhat distracted lately.” Zoey’s tone was far from accusatory. She sounded concerned more than anything, with a dash of affection thrown in for good measure.
Anya pulled a face. “Is it that obvious?”
“Pretty much.” Zoey smiled. “I think I know what it is.”
Inexplicably, Brock’s face flashed in Anya’s mind. “You do?”
“Yes.” Zoey nodded. “It’s the work you’re doing with the ski patrol, isn’t it? All that time you’re spending training the dogs?”
“That might have something to do with it.” Anya bit her lip. It was true. She’d been spending an awful lot of time up on the mountain. And when she wasn’t working with the dogs, she was thinking about them. She couldn’t help it. The work she was doing with the search and rescue unit filled her with a sense of purpose she’d never found at the coffee bar.
“You love it. I can see it whenever you talk about it. You just light up from the inside.” Zoey paused from scrubbing the pot and glanced up at her. “Hey, don’t look so worried. It’s only a little burned coffee. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“Nothing to be afraid of,” Anya repeated.
She didn’t believe a word of it. There was quite a lot to be afraid of, actually.
Anya wouldn’t have believed it possible, but Brock’s presence in Aurora had grown even more problematic. In addition to dealing with the conflicting feelings she’d been battling since the moment he’d removed that nutty bear head, now he’d shown her a whole new world she hadn’t even known existed. He’d given her the chance to do something with her life. Something real. Something of
value. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d needed to feel used by God until Sherlock had bounded toward her hiding place, his victory barks bouncing off the evergreens.
Maybe someday he would save someone’s life. And she would have been a part of that. A small part, obviously, but the idea of it sent a shiver up her spine.
How would she ever go back to the way things were before?
She swallowed and tried not to think about what would happen when Brock left, whether she would ever stand atop that mountain again, or if she would spend the rest of her life making coffee.
Or burning coffee, as the case may be.
“Here comes your hero.” Zoey nodded to the circular door at the hotel entrance.
Sure enough, Brock was spinning his way inside the circular door, his shoulders so broad they nearly filled the door frame. “Please don’t call him that.” Your hero. “Please.”
“Whatever you say.” Zoey shrugged and pulled a book from one of the shelves under the counter.
Anya stared at the cover. “Principles of Aviation? A little light reading?”
“Something like that,” Zoey mumbled, her eyes widening with joy as she flipped to a page featuring a diagram of a flight deck.
Perhaps Anya wasn’t the only one who dreamed of greater things. The thought brought Anya some comfort, even though the aroma of burned coffee beans still lingered.
“Good morning.” Brock paused, halfway perched on one of the stools across the counter. He sniffed. “What’s that smell?”
Zoey raised her head from her airplane diagram. “I don’t smell anything.” She winked at Anya.
Brock’s gaze darted between the two of them. “Then I guess I’ll have a cup of coffee.”
“Coming right up.” Anya poured a cup from the batch she’d managed not to burn and slid the mug toward Brock.
He eyed it warily before taking a sip. Then he sat the mug back down and stared into the coffee. Naturally. Anywhere but directly at her. “I wanted to come by and tell you what a great job you did yesterday.”
“Oh. Wow.” For Brock, it was nothing short of effusive. Anya found herself worrying less and less about the burned coffee. “Thank you.”
“You’re going to be a big help to the program. I can tell,” he said to his coffee cup.
It was just as well. Anya was probably grinning like an idiot, and Brock didn’t need to see that.
“I’d like to do something to return the favor.” He looked up at her. “I think it’s time I meet this dog of yours. I can show you some things to help her come out of her shell. Okay if I come by your place tomorrow?”
Anya blinked at him wordlessly. The thought of Brock Parker in her house gave her pause. To put it mildly, it wasn’t a good idea. Not at all.
He was too handsome. Too heroic. And to her utter astonishment, she realized she’d even come to think of him as too cute in those crazy get-ups of his.
And she was too...
Too what? she wondered. Too jaded? Too attracted to him?
Too afraid?
She swallowed. Bingo.
Even so, she found herself agreeing. “That sounds good.”
“Okay then.”
With a shaky hand, she jotted down the number of her cottage. And as Brock slipped it into the pocket of his parka, Anya couldn’t help but wonder just what she’d gotten herself into.
Chapter Seven
“Mom, are you home?” Anya wandered down the hall toward the sewing room.
For once, the whirring of the sewing machine hadn’t greeted her upon entering the house. She found the silence eerie—alarming, in a way—as though she’d accidentally walked into the wrong home.
“Of course I am,” her mother called out. “Where else would I be?”
“Good question,” Anya muttered as she leaned against the doorframe of her old bedroom and let her gaze fall on her mother.
As usual, she was bent over the sewing table. Only this time, her stitches were silent. Done by hand. Reading glasses were perched on the tip of her nose, and she still held the fur cuff of the parka she was working on only inches from her face.
“One of these days, I’m going to give up working with fur. I’ve already poked myself three times.” She peered at Anya over the top of her glasses. “What brings you by?”
Anya shrugged. “Nothing in particular.”
It was the truth, yet it wasn’t. She’d hoped to tell her mom she’d been back on the mountaintop. And had survived to boot. She wanted to tell her mom all about Sherlock and Aspen. And yes, Brock too. But now that she was here, she was inexplicably bashful.
Are all families like this? Or just mine? Why is it so hard to talk to her?
“You have something to say.” Her mother abandoned her sewing and slid the reading glasses off. “I recognize that look on your face. What’s got you so excited?”
Anya took a deep breath. “I’ve begun volunteering with the ski patrol.”
Her mother’s eyes grew wide. And wary. “What?”
“I’m helping out with the ski patrol. They’ve acquired two new avalanche search dogs, and I’m working with the patrol to get them trained and ready for duty.” Before her mother could respond, she launched into a detailed explanation of the training she’d done with the pups.
She started by telling her mom all about reading the newspaper aloud and hand-feeding. Before long she’d relived the whole snow machine outing and how she had felt when Sherlock had found her in the trench. “You should have seen him, Mom. He was so excited to find me. He’s such a great dog. And who knows? Maybe someday he’ll find a real avalanche victim...actually save someone’s life. And I’ll have been a part of that.”
“You certainly seem excited about all this. I can’t believe you’ve been back up there.” Her mother shook her head. She didn’t say a word about why Anya’s willingness to go back up the mountain came as a shock. She didn’t have to. Speed’s unspoken name hung in the air, just as Anya’s father’s name had for as long as she could remember.
“Me neither,” Anya said. “It’s been fine, though. Really, it has.”
Her mother cleared her throat. Quite forcefully. Undoubtedly, a change of subject was in order. No talking about the past. It was the unwritten rule of the household.
“However did you get involved with this?” Anya’s mother angled her head. “I can’t even imagine.”
“It’s kind of a funny story actually.” Anya suppressed a grin as she thought of Brock and his bear suit. Perhaps she should leave that detail out of the story. She doubted her mother would find it humorous. “I was looking for someone to help with Dolce, and Clementine led me to Brock.”
“Brock?” His name almost sounded like a dirty word coming from her mother’s mouth. “Who is this Brock?”
Oh boy. “He’s an avalanche expert and he trains dogs in search and rescue. He just moved here. The ski patrol hired him to head up their search and rescue program. He’s been teaching me how to get Dolce to come out of her shell.”
She specifically didn’t mention her impending eviction from the cottage. Now didn’t seem like the best time to throw that problem into the mix.
“Anya.” Her mother sighed.
Anya stiffened. Why had she come? She should have known her mother wouldn’t understand. Yet here she was, trying to explain how exciting it felt to be a part of something so important. Trying, but apparently not succeeding. “Mom, it’s not what you’re thinking.”
“Oh, really? What am I thinking?”
“There’s nothing going on between Brock and me.” Why was she constantly saying this? Whatever fleeting moments of attraction she’d experienced were unilateral. The man wouldn’t even look her in the eye. Unless he was attracted to her forehead, there wasn’t anything to worry abou
t.
“I don’t want you to get hurt. That’s all. What do you really know about this man?”
I know he believes in me. “He’s trained dogs all over the world to save people. Everyone calls him a hero. I think that’s enough to believe he can help my dog. Don’t you?”
“I don’t know, Anya...”
“Well, I do.” She knew she’d finally found something that made her happy. Something worthwhile. And for right now, knowing that was enough. “I have to go. I just wanted to come by and tell you about the ski patrol.”
“Stay for dinner?”
“I can’t, Mom. I have plans.” She concentrated unnecessarily hard on zipping up her parka and pulling on her mittens, afraid to meet her mother’s gaze lest the plans she’d made with Brock were visible in her eyes. It was ludicrous. She felt like a thirteen-year-old. “Besides, it looks like you’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Always.” Her mother slid the reading glasses back in place, and her lips fell into a flat line.
Always.
She’s right, Anya thought as she left her mother to her sewing. Things around here never change.
* * *
“That’s it?” Anya cocked her head.
Brock was acutely aware of her gaze sweeping him up and down as he stepped inside her cottage. Situated behind the main building of the Northern Lights Inn, it was one of a series of tiny bungalows that overlooked the frozen expanse of lake where the ski planes so typical of Alaska landed to unload their cargo.
“Pardon?” he asked, ignoring her scrutiny and taking in the surroundings.
Cozy, he mused. From the fluffy pillows and polka-dotted throw covering the sofa, to the half-dozen or so balls of yarn arranged in a bowl on the coffee table, Anya’s home was filled with color. Bright turquoise, vibrant magenta, lime green and strawberry red. A bit girly for his taste, but it definitely beat the stark white walls, brown leather sofa and pile of cardboard boxes he called home.
