by Teri Wilson
“I said, ‘is that it?’” Anya crossed her arms and aimed her gaze at the space above his head. “No antlers? I’m disappointed. You’re losing your edge.”
He grinned, despite the lecture he’d given himself on the drive over that this visit was strictly business, not a social call. “I told you that was a socialization exercise.”
“Whatever.” She lifted one slender shoulder in a shrug, teasing him.
Yet Brock noticed her heart wasn’t in it. She looked a little...sad. He frowned and found himself wondering what had happened to make those eyes of hers lose their trademark sparkle.
Stop it. Anya’s problems—whatever they might be—are none of your concern. You’re not here to be her friend. To act as if you were would be unfair.
Unfair or not, it didn’t seem right to proceed with dog training business. In fact, it seemed insensitive—not to mention downright unkind—to ignore that lost look on her face.
“Everything okay?” He cleared his throat. Could this get any more awkward? “You don’t seem to have your usual enthusiasm for mocking me.”
“You noticed?” She lifted a brow, clearly shocked he would ask about her well-being.
Join the club. You’re not the only one. “Yes, I did.”
“Thank you for asking,” she said warily. “Nothing major. I just came from my mother’s. Family baggage, I guess you could say.”
He nodded, not quite sure how to respond.
“All families have issues, I suppose. You know what I mean, right?” She gazed up at him with those soulful eyes, and before Brock knew what he was doing, he let his guard down.
“All too well, I’m afraid.” The words were out before he even realized what he’d said.
He had the very sudden, very real urge to reel them back in. Brock didn’t talk about his brother. To anyone. Ever. And he wasn’t about to start now, even if something about Anya gave him the vague impression that they might be kindred spirits.
Impossible. On the surface, they didn’t appear to have much in common. Even if there was some mutual ground he had yet to discover, Brock doubted it would have anything to do with something as morbid as a family member’s kidnapping. At least he hoped not—for Anya’s sake.
She breezed past him, and he exhaled a sigh of relief. Whatever her family baggage involved, she didn’t seem any more ready to discuss it than he did.
“Would you like some hot chocolate?” She paused at the doorframe. Light spilled from the kitchen, bathing her in a warm, homey glow that made it difficult for Brock to swallow.
“Um, sure. Thanks.” Instead of following her he waited in the living room and tried to get his bearings.
This wasn’t a date. He was here to help her dog. A dog he’d yet to lay eyes on, he couldn’t help but notice. Anya wasn’t kidding when she said the pup was shy.
Still, he couldn’t help but feel a little like a jerk knowing she was in there pouring him a cup of cocoa. In all the times she’d been to his home, he’d never offered her so much as a glass of tap water.
After another moment, Anya returned with a mug in each hand.
He took one. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She took a sip of hers. “So Mr. Miyagi, would you like to meet my dog now?”
“Lead the way, er...young protégé.”
“Daniel.” She shot him a grin over her shoulder as she guided him to what he supposed was her bedroom. “His name is Daniel.”
“I guess I’m not up on my eighties movie trivia.”
“You’re in serious need of a movie marathon.” Anya rolled her eyes. At least Brock thought she did. He was doing his best to keep his focus on her forehead. Things were already getting a little too cozy without the added distraction of those eyes.
Anya didn’t seem to notice. She sank, cross-legged, to the floor and gave the space beside her a pat.
Brock sat down and gestured to the Bible, magazine and ball of lime-green yarn—speared through with knitting needles—littering the floor beside the bed. “It looks like you’ve been spending some time down here.”
“It’s working.” She grinned and pointed to the small, black, quivering nose resting on a pair of white paws that poked out from under her bed. “See?”
Brock waited a beat for the rest of the dog to make an appearance. When it was clear all he was going to get was a nose and a pair of paws, he frowned. “So this is progress?”
“Yes. Haven’t you noticed? She’s quiet.” Anya nodded. “And when I feed her, she crawls almost halfway out.”
“Why don’t we offer her a treat then?” Brock reached in his pocket. “Here, take a couple.”
Anya wiggled her nose. “Wow, these are certainly...fragrant. What are they?”
“Dried salmon.” Brock placed a few of the treats in her hand. “Now offer them to her with an open palm. But don’t get too close. Let’s see if she’ll come all the way out to get a nibble.”
“Okay,” she whispered and did as he said.
The dog’s nose trembled, and the rest of her head appeared—pointy ears and markings of wolf grey in a masklike pattern around warm, brown eyes. She resembled a miniature sled dog, quintessentially Alaskan.
Anya moved her palm forward a little, and Brock reached out to still her arm. “No. Just stay where you are. Let’s see if we can wait her out.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Brock saw Anya nod. They waited a few moments in silence. Not wanting to look right at the dog and intimidate her, Brock searched for another place to fix his gaze. He settled on the ball of yarn.
“You knit?” he asked.
“Yes, I belong to a group at church. We make hats for underprivileged folks out in the Bush.” Anya’s voice was barely above a whisper.
Brock knew she was simply trying not to frighten the dog, but something about that breathy whisper unnerved him just the same. He cleared his throat and stared into his mug of hot chocolate. He didn’t dare look at Anya. Or the dog.
“How long have you had her?” He pointed the toe of his hiking boot toward the dog.
“About a year.”
“A year?” Brock sputtered and nearly choked on a marshmallow. “Are you serious?”
“Sure, why?” She blinked at him innocently with those lovely violet eyes.
Brock looked back down at his mug. “That’s an extraordinarily long time. Most people would have given up on this dog by now.”
“Given up? Given up? That’s horrible. I would never give up on her. I rescued her off the streets. She doesn’t have anyone but me.” Anya’s voice grew a little wobbly. From the sound of things, if Brock ventured a glance at her he wouldn’t have been surprised to see a tremble in her bottom lip. “I could never just abandon her.”
Clearly his remark had struck some kind of nerve. “Your devotion to her is admirable.”
“Not really.” She sniffed. “It’s the right thing to do, that’s all.”
The right thing to do.
Bits and pieces of his soul-searching with the Bible out at the ski patrol headquarters came back to Brock. With a pang, he remembered convincing himself he was doing God’s work. Somehow, sitting here on the floor beside Anya and her dog, it sounded rather arrogant.
“Of course, I may not have a choice in the matter. Time is running out.” She sniffed. “She’s making progress, though. I think the toy you gave me is helping. There weren’t any complaints about her while I was at work today.”
“I’m glad.” Brock’s head spun. He hadn’t realized exactly how bad the situation had gotten. Surely there was something else he could do to help. “What’s her name?”
“Dolce.” In the split second before Brock focused on her forehead, he saw a glow of pure affection in her eyes. “It means sweet in Italian.”
They
weren’t in Italy, and the dog wasn’t sweet. Dolce was a name for fluffy white dogs who rode around in women’s handbags in places like New York or Paris. Not dodgy strays that hid under beds, ate their food in the dead of night and managed to push their rescuers to the brink of eviction.
But Brock wasn’t about to point out the obvious. He’d seen that look in Anya’s violet eyes—the one that told him she thought the sun rose and set on Dolce’s shoulders. He wasn’t going to be the one to burst her bubble.
Dolce had no idea how good she had it. From the look of things, Anya would walk across burning coals for that dog.
For a moment, just a moment, Brock wondered what it would be like to inspire that kind of devotion in a woman.
This woman, in particular.
Before he could process that sudden wish, Dolce scooted out from beneath the bed. She shimmied on her belly, making her way toward Anya’s hand.
Brock grinned and Anya gasped in delight as Dolce scooted alongside her leg—the one farthest from Brock—and began eating from her hand.
Anya beamed at him. “Thank you.”
“This is your doing. Not mine.” Brock swallowed with great difficulty. “So let me get this straight. When you’re not making the best coffee in Aurora, you’re helping me with the ski patrol, knitting hats for poor people and rescuing frightened dogs?”
She laughed. “It’s only the one.”
He handed her a few more treats. “One what?”
“One hat and one dog.” She shrugged. “I’m kind of new at this...faith and making a difference.”
“It suits you,” he said in a voice almost too quiet for her to hear.
Who was he kidding? This was more than just business.
He hadn’t asked for it, but Anya had crawled under his skin. His reluctance to admit it didn’t change the fact that they were becoming friends.
Close friends.
Dolce finished her treats, and Brock breathed a sigh of relief when she nestled into Anya’s side instead of retreating under the bed. He had a feeling he was going to be here a while, which was perfectly fine.
The moment was so perfect that part of him—the best part, probably—wanted it to last a very long time. He reached for Anya’s hand and gathered it in his own.
Her skin was warm. And soft. So, so soft.
“Can I ask you something?” she whispered.
“Sure.”
There was a long pause, then finally, “Why don’t you ever look me in the eye?”
Because those eyes are so beautiful I’m afraid I’ll lose myself in them.
Brock cleared his throat. “Does it bother you that I don’t?”
“Yes, very much.” She turned to look at him.
He looked right back into her eyes, which seemed bigger and more luminous than ever before. “Then I will from now on.”
* * *
Brock had barely made it home when his cell phone rang. For a single, delusional moment he thought perhaps he’d hear Anya’s voice on the other end.
“Hello?” he ground out, wondering what was happening to him—when he’d begun to think it was a good idea to hold hands with someone he worked with or to wish he’d hear her voice on the phone.
“Brock Parker?” A distinctly nonfeminine voice called out to him over the phone line.
He cleared his throat. “This is Brock.”
“This is Guy Wallace, of the Utah Search and Rescue Unit, Mountain Division. I’m glad I reached you.”
“Yes?”
“We’re looking for some help training a pair of avalanche search dogs. Naturally, your name came up.”
“I see,” Brock said.
He was accustomed to receiving these types of calls. This was his life after all. But for some reason, he wasn’t all that interested in talking to Guy Wallace from Utah at the moment.
“We’d love to fly you out here and show you around. We’ve got a fine pair of pups, ready and waiting to be trained. Frankly, I’m a little out of my element and could use some assistance.”
“What kind of dogs?” Brock asked.
“Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retrievers.”
Same as Sherlock and Aspen. Tempting. Very tempting.
This was the type of situation that had Brock’s name written all over it. Still, he hesitated. It took a moment for him to think of something to say. “What’s your avalanche threat level?”
“Moderate. Our snow has been light this year so far. I don’t think we’re in any immediate danger, but it’s a good time to get some serious training in. And like I said, we’ve got these pups.”
No immediate danger. Relief coursed through Brock. “I’m actually in the middle of a job right now. Up in Alaska.”
“When do you expect to be free?” Guy asked.
“I can’t really say. We’ve got a ways to go. Months, most likely.”
Months? That was a stretch. Things were progressing in Aurora right on schedule. Sure, Sherlock was proving to be more of a challenge than he’d expected. But Brock could fix that soon enough. What was he saying?
“Well, keep us in mind if things change. And give me a call when you have an exit date. I’m sure we can accommodate your schedule. According to everyone I’ve spoken with, you’re the best.”
Brock took down Guy’s contact information, writing it carefully in the notepad he kept in the pocket of his parka. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be in touch.”
Chapter Eight
The buzz of a ski plane landing on the frozen lake behind the Northern Lights Inn snapped Anya out of her daydream. She removed her elbows from the counter, stood up straight and smoothed her apron.
Since Brock’s visit to her home the night before, she’d been hopelessly distracted. This morning she’d even given Gus, one of her regular customers, a generous portion of caffeinated Gold Rush bold blend instead of his customary watered-down decaf. The old man’s eyes had just about popped out of his head after one sip.
She ventured a glance at Gus now as he climbed down from the cockpit of the single-engine ski plane that had skidded to a stop moments before. He appeared to be back in good form.
Good, she thought. She didn’t want to be responsible for debilitating Aurora’s one and only Bush pilot. She was in enough trouble as it was.
Anya inhaled a steadying breath and went to work scrubbing the surface of the espresso machine as if she were trying to scrub the brushed nickel finish right off. She wished her growing feelings for Brock could be scoured away with a little elbow grease too. Because even though everything within her railed against the idea, she was developing an affection for him.
Because he’d been the one to notice.
Brock had known her a matter of weeks, and somehow he’d seen the changes she’d been making in her life since she’d come to know God.
Brock had noticed.
And by all appearances, he liked those changes.
For some reason, it was this knowledge that Brock saw in her that weakened her resistance. Ever so slightly.
“Whoa, take it easy there. What did that machine ever do to you?” Clementine grinned and gestured to the Gaggia as she slid onto one of the barstools on the opposite side of the coffee bar.
Anya dragged herself from her thoughts and smiled at her friend. “I’m doing a little deep cleaning this morning. No biggie.”
She gave the machine a final swipe with her dishrag and exhaled a relieved breath. She couldn’t have been happier to see Clementine—anything to take her mind off Brock. Anya had never been the kind of woman to moon over a man, and she wasn’t about to start now. “Can I interest you in a Macaroon Mocha, today’s special?”
“Yes, please. You know me so well.” Clementine slid her purse from her shoulder and plunked it down on the empty
barstool beside her. “So how are things going?”
“Great. A little slow today, though.” Anya pumped a few squirts of coconut syrup into the latte cup. Then, because it was Clementine, she added a couple more for good measure.
“I’m not talking about business.” Clementine cast a glance over her shoulder at the near-empty lobby. “I mean how are things going with Dolce? Are you still seeing Brock?”
Anya’s face flushed with warmth at the question, which was absurd. She wasn’t seeing him. And she had no intention of doing so, even if holding his hand had made her feel more womanly than she’d felt in a long time. Feminine. Special.
A familiar phrase leapt out at her from years ago—no one special.
She swallowed and pushed Clementine’s coffee across the counter. “Yes, Brock’s still helping me out.”
“Are you learning anything? Or is he still just having you read aloud to his dogs?”
“I’m learning quite a bit, believe it or not. I’ve been sitting next to my bed every day when I get home, just hanging out, reading, knitting. And it’s working. Dolce’s even crawling out from under the bed now to sit beside me.”
Clementine’s mocha paused en route to her mouth. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” Anya shook her head. “I’m not.”
“I have to say I’m surprised. I’ve helped Ben rescue lots of sled dogs from the animal shelter, and none of them have ever taken this long to come around.”
Her words reminded Anya of Brock’s shocked expression when he’d found out how long ago she’d rescued Dolce...and his comment about how most people would have given up on her. The idea was still so inconceivable to Anya that it brought a pang to her heart. “You know, I always thought Dolce was some kind of miniature husky, but Brock says she’s not. He said she’s an Alaskan Klee Kai.”
Clementine’s brows drew together. “I’ve never heard of that breed before.”
“Don’t feel bad. I’m from Alaska, and I’ve never heard of it before either. Brock says they’re notoriously shy, which is probably part of the problem with Dolce. But he thinks she may have been abused for a while, more than just the one time I witnessed.” The notion made Anya sick to her stomach, even though she’d suspected as much before she’d enlisted Brock’s help.
