by Teri Wilson
And remarkably, that was it. They didn’t exchange another word about Brock the rest of the evening. No I-told-you-sos, no speeches about how men can’t be trusted or how history was doomed to repeat itself. They simply sat side by side, eating soup and watching bad reality television.
It was just what Anya needed.
* * *
“Sherlock, get up.”
The dog heaved a dramatic sigh and plopped his chin on his paws. His gold eyes darted to Brock for the briefest moment. Other than that fleeting acknowledgment, Sherlock gave Brock no indication that he’d heard anything, much less a command.
Brock frowned.
This was not good. Not good at all.
He might have expected such snippy behavior from Aspen, the world’s biggest faker, but not Sherlock. Sherlock might have been the more cautious of the pair, but he’d always been utterly devoted to Brock. Brock had initially considered this a potential problem.
Loyalty was certainly good, particularly for a search dog. But ideally, Sherlock would pledge his loyalty and devotion to whomever was going to be his permanent handler. And that was not Brock. Which was why Anya’s work with the dogs had become so important. They were getting exposure to new people, new happenings. Sherlock, in particular, had thrived under her attention.
But that didn’t mean he should start ignoring Brock’s commands.
“Sherlock, come.”
Brock clapped his hands, whistled, cajoled and generally made a fool of himself. All for naught. The dog didn’t budge.
Brock sighed, crossed the room and sank to the floor, cross-legged, beside Sherlock. “Hey, bud. Are you feeling okay?”
He rested a hand on the dog’s head. It was warm but not too warm. Similarly his gums were pink, eyes clear and nose wet and cool to the touch. In short, everything about Sherlock appeared fine. Physically, that is.
Somewhere at the back of Brock’s mind, he had a nagging suspicion about the exact nature of the dog’s problem.
“You miss her, don’t you?” Brock laid a hand on Sherlock’s rib cage, and in the gentle rise and fall of the dog’s breath he knew he’d hit the nail on the head.
Anya hadn’t come around since before the Reindeer Run three days ago.
Not that Brock blamed her, and not that she’d been formally scheduled to help with the dogs before their next mountain-top training session on Wednesday, but her absence had been difficult to ignore.
She’d been stopping by occasionally on quick, spur-of-the-moment visits to work with the dogs. And Brock had preferred that. The unexpected nature of her training sessions kept the dogs on their toes, preventing them from becoming accustomed to a routine. Because if there was anything routine about search and rescue work, it was its lack of routine. As for Brock, he’d been surprised at how often he found himself glancing at the barn door, wondering when she’d saunter inside, armed and ready with a teasing comment about whatever he was wearing at the moment.
Of course, all of that had been before.
The Reindeer Run had somehow become one of those events that divided time into two distinct categories—before and after. Such a sentiment would ordinarily seem melodramatic to Brock, but he couldn’t help the way he felt. And even though he was loath to admit it, he’d come to realize he greatly preferred Before.
“You’ll see her tomorrow on the mountain.” At least Brock assumed Sherlock would see her then. He hadn’t confirmed things with her since Before, but Anya didn’t seem like the sort to bail on something so important. Granted, he’d only known her a matter of weeks, but she definitely gave him the impression that she stuck by her commitments.
Still, it would have been nice to talk to her, to see her, before she started hiding in a hole in the snow and he was but one of several people pretending to search for her.
He glanced down at Sherlock once more. The dog slid his dejected gaze toward him and Brock spoke without thinking, the words slipping from his mouth before he could stop them. “I miss her too.”
His head throbbed. Saying such a thing out loud was far different from keeping it inside, even if a dog was the only witness to his confession. Because simply saying it was admitting it. So long as his feelings were tucked deep inside, Brock could almost deny they existed. Almost.
The denial was becoming harder and harder to pull off.
He rose to his feet. The way he saw it, he had two choices—either leave Aurora altogether or patch things up with Anya.
Leaving wasn’t without its appeal. Maybe he wasn’t ready to admit how much he wanted to stay—he’d had enough confessions for one day—but the idea of leaving town seemed extreme. After all, what had really transpired? He’d made a friend. He’d unwittingly hurt her feelings. Such things weren’t the end of the world. They happened every day.
Except deep down, Brock couldn’t help but wonder if his behavior had been one hundred percent unintentional. In all the hours they’d spent together, he’d never once mentioned to Anya that he was only in town until the avalanche rescue program was up and running. But he’d seen fit to mention his plans to Cole on numerous occasions. Could he have subconsciously been avoiding such a conversation with Anya?
That was an idea he really didn’t care to ponder.
Whatever was going on beneath the surface didn’t matter. The bottom line was that he and Anya would be working together. Sherlock’s despondency had brought the potential crisis regarding their working relationship into clearer focus. Brock needed to fix things. It was his professional responsibility, plain and simple.
And above all else, Brock was professional. His work defined him.
He walked Sherlock back to the barn and gave both him and Aspen rawhide bones so large, they were nearly comical in proportion. “You two behave while I’m gone.”
Sherlock’s depression appeared to ebb somewhat as he systematically went to work licking his rawhide chew from top to bottom.
Good.
Things were already looking up. Hopefully, once Sherlock got back on the mountain, he’d be back to his old self. If only smoothing things over with Anya could be so easy to achieve. Brock smiled as he shrugged into his parka, grabbed his keys and headed for his truck. Brock knew dogs. He’d lived and worked with them for the better part of his life. But now he was out of his element. He didn’t have a clue about women. Or friendships, for that matter.
As clueless as he was, he knew a rawhide bone wouldn’t do the trick. But unbelievable as it seemed, Brock had a pretty good idea what might.
* * *
The third night after the Reindeer Run, Anya sat in what she’d come to think of as her usual spot—on the floor at the foot of her bed. She was midway through a new knitting project, her first to use multiple colors of yarn. She’d started it with Brock in mind. She was using every color of yarn in the rainbow, and the hat was comically oversized, like an old-fashioned stocking cap. It wasn’t a Viking hat or a bear suit, but she had a hunch he’d like it as a socialization tool. Of course, when she’d begun the project, she hadn’t realized he was only in town temporarily. She wasn’t even sure she could finish it before he left. But to abandon it now would only make his impending departure feel more imminent. And that was the last thing she wanted.
Anya knitted away with Dolce nestled in a ball in the middle of her lap. It was all very cozy, and Anya was beginning to wonder when Dolce might see fit to venture into the living room. The tiny dog had become pretty comfortable within the confines of the bedroom. She’d even been relatively quiet. Since she’d introduced Dolce to the rubber food toy, she hadn’t received a single noise complaint from the hotel manager.
But Dolce had yet to cross the threshold into the hallway. As proud as Anya was of her little pup, she sometimes longed for the comfort of her sofa.
There was a knock at the door, and Dolce’s ears flattened in alarm.
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All in due time, Anya mused as she gathered her knitting together and lifted Dolce off her lap. The dog stretched and opened her petite mouth in a wide yawn before sliding under the bed.
A trickle of worry still passed through Anya every time Dolce returned to her hiding spot, although she felt increasingly hopeful about the dog’s future. She’d come so far since Anya had started working with Brock and his dogs.
At the thought of Brock, Anya’s chest tightened. She pressed her palm against the place where her heart beat, as if that small amount of pressure could force her feelings back under control.
It didn’t work, of course, and her heart all but did a double flip when she swung the door open and found Brock standing on her front porch.
“Hey,” he said and cleared his throat. He looked every bit as uncomfortable as Anya felt.
The evening snowfall had grown more intense since the last time Anya had stepped outside, and it swirled furiously around Brock in every direction. He blinked against an onslaught of snow flurries collecting in his eyelashes. His shoulders were already heavily dusted with snow, making him look even bigger and broader than usual. Anya had the fleeting, fantastical thought that Brock had been caught up in a whirlwind, that the winter wind had picked him right up and deposited him on her doorstep.
She was surprised to find him there. Judging by the bewildered look on his face, Brock was rather startled himself.
“Hey yourself.” Anya smiled into the bitter cold, and a shiver coursed through her. She crossed her arms and glanced down, embarrassed to realize she was wearing one of her oldest, rattiest sweatshirts, jeans and fuzzy slippers.
As if on cue, Brock’s gaze dropped to her feet. “Nice shoes. What are those? Bunnies?”
“Of course not. They’re polar bears.” She wiggled a foot toward him. Snow piled on top of her slipper, all but obscuring the polar bear’s shiny plastic nose. “No self-respecting Alaskan would be caught wearing bunny slippers. Not so long as there are moose slippers, reindeer slippers and bear slippers—both polar and grizzly—to choose from.”
“Of course.” Brock shook his head. “Point taken.”
“You can borrow them sometime if you like. You know you want to. They make great socialization tools.” She made air quotes around that last part.
He pinned her with a sardonic look. Anya had never been so happy to see a visible display of sarcasm. After the way she’d acted at the Reindeer Run, she didn’t know whether or not she and Brock would be able to find their playful dynamic again. Could they still be friends? Would he even want to after she’d embarrassed both of them?
Apparently, he just might.
“Would you like to come in out of the cold?” she asked.
“Thanks,” he said and stepped inside. Instantly, her tiny cottage felt two or three sizes tinier. Brock filled the place.
And before Anya could shut the door, a rush of snow came in behind him.
“Wow, it’s really coming down out there.” She darted to the kitchen and returned with a towel to mop up the mess.
When she bent down, Brock did so at the same time. “Here, let me.”
“That’s okay. I’ve got it...” Their foreheads collided. Anya wasn’t at all surprised to discover Brock’s head was every bit as hard as it looked. “Ouch.”
Marble statue? Try concrete.
“Sorry.” Brock winced. “Really, let me.”
He reached for the towel, and an unmistakable zing surged through Anya at the touch of his fingertips. She straightened, not liking where this was heading at all. Good grief, the man had barely walked through the door and already sparks were flying. Sparks that were by no means welcome, especially now that she knew Brock’s future plans didn’t include staying in Aurora.
He finished mopping up the slush and rose. He said nothing, of course, but simply stood there. Quiet as always.
Anya angled her head, wishing she didn’t have to ask. “Brock, what are you doing here? I don’t think you really stopped by in the middle of a snowstorm to borrow my slippers.”
A sheepish smile came to his lips. “I brought a peace offering.”
“A peace offering?” Anya gulped. “Really?”
“Yes, an apology of sorts.” He unzipped his parka and reached inside.
She couldn’t imagine what he had in there, but whatever it was made her nervous. “Brock, that’s not necessary. I’m the one who should apologize.”
“Shhh.”
He was shushing her now? Really? Anya crossed her arms. “I’m not a dog, you know.”
“I’m quite aware of that.” Brock rolled his ice-blue eyes. “But I think you’re going to be particularly pleased with this peace offering.”
“You sound awfully sure of yourself.”
“Oh, I am.” With a flourish, he pulled a slender box out of his jacket.
Anya was speechless—a rare occurrence for her. Brock was the one who was usually so economical with his words. Try as she might, for a few silent beats she could do nothing but stare.
She swallowed and finally managed to speak. “I can’t believe you did this.”
Brock held the DVD up next to his face. “You mentioned I was in serious need of a movie marathon. I thought The Karate Kid was the logical place to start. I’m ready to discover the profound mystery of wax on, wax off. Care to join me?”
She was forced to clear her throat as it clogged with emotion. “How I can refuse?”
“Good.” He grinned and slid his arms out of his parka.
So this was really happening? After the humiliation of the Reindeer Run and three days of total silence between them, they were just going to cozy up and watch The Karate Kid?
It was crazy. They were adults. They should talk things through, have an actual one-on-one conversation about why Brock had failed to mention his future plans. Anya should just bite the bullet and explain why she’d reacted as she did. She should tell him about her father and about Speed. Would it be pleasant? No, of course not. The tough conversations never were.
She watched Brock stroll over to her television. It took him less than four strides to cover the entirety of her living room. And as he slid her favorite movie into the DVD player and Ralph Macchio’s silhouette popped up on the screen in all its cranelike glory, Anya decided talking was vastly overrated.
“I’ll make us some popcorn.” She paused when she reached the entryway to the kitchen. “Butter or no butter?”
He lifted a single eyebrow. “That’s seriously a question? What’s popcorn without butter?”
“My thoughts exactly.” As she popped a bag of popcorn in the microwave, she noticed that her hands were shaking.
What was that all about? They were two friends watching a movie together.
Let’s not make more of this than it actually is.
“Need a hand?” Brock poked his head in the kitchen.
She wished he wouldn’t sneak up on her like that. His face was far too handsome to come into view without a proper warning. “I think I’ve got it under control, but thanks.”
He lingered anyway, his gaze traveling over her head to the kitchen window where snow beat against the glass, so white and thick that Anya could no longer make out the shape of the Northern Lights Inn lobby, even though it was only a stone’s throw away. The corners of Brock’s mouth tugged into a slight frown.
Then—because no matter what remained left unsaid, there was one thing she wanted to make very clear—she took a deep breath. “Brock, just so you know, I’m going to be there tomorrow for the training session on the mountain.”
“Okay,” he said, tearing his gaze from the window, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
“I’ll be there, and I was always planning on being there. I wouldn’t have bailed on something so important.” She swal
lowed and watched his eyes shine bright blue, bluer than she’d ever seen them before.
“I know,” he said simply, as if he’d never had a moment of doubt.
She found this reassuring, this knowledge that he had faith in her, no matter the circumstances. Anya was a stranger to that kind of faith in people. She’d only recently begun to find that sort of faith in God.
Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.
It was a promise she clung to as if her life depended on it. An impossibly big promise made by an impossibly big God. She couldn’t imagine believing a promise like that from a mere mortal...a person...a man.
Certainly not the man standing beside her.
Because hero or not, he’d made it abundantly clear that he didn’t make those kinds of promises.
Chapter Eleven
Somewhere between the time the Karate Kid sanded his first floor and painted Mr. Miyagi’s house, Brock began to relax. Even with the snow coming down like it was, he eventually forgot to keep a constant eye on the window and the weather outside. The warmth of Anya’s cottage, coupled with the sight of Anya’s feet propped up on the coffee table in her fuzzy polar bear slippers, loosened something inside him.
And then there was the company.
Even with the giant bowl of popcorn tucked between them on the sofa, Brock was hyperaware of Anya’s presence. Every time she laughed at something onscreen, he felt a pang right in the middle of his chest. When it looked as though the Daniel might throw in the towel, she stared wide-eyed at the television with her bottom lip tucked between her teeth. Brock looked away, determined not to take notice of that lip, no matter how pink and shapely it might be. And then, even though she’d admitted to having seen the movie at least a dozen times already, Anya started sniffling toward the end. Brock would have to be blind not to notice how her violet eyes grew even more luminous than usual when filled with unshed tears.
How did she do it? he wondered. How did she let herself go and experience things so wholeheartedly? He’d spent so much of his life guarding his emotions, controlling his surroundings in an effort to prevent himself from being blindsided with crippling hurt as he was when Drew vanished, that he’d ceased to feel altogether.
