Alaskan Hero

by Teri Wilson

“No. Never.”

  She swallowed. So this was the truth about Brock—his past had turned him into a tragic hero.

  “I’ve never even been tempted to let it go...” He cupped her cheek in his hand. His fingertips were surprisingly warm against her skin. “...until now.”

  With his touch, the air in the tiny cave seemed to sparkle just as brightly and beautifully as the icy crystals that surrounded them. Anya lifted her gaze to his and looked right into his eyes—the exact shade of blue as a glacier—and could see he was telling the truth.

  She wished it were possible to freeze time as easily as it was to freeze water, for the air to grow cold and change rain to sleet. Because if it were, she would freeze this moment—stay right here in the snow cave with Brock looking at her the way he was now.

  As though he wanted to kiss her.

  “Brock,” she whispered, unsure of what exactly she wanted to say. She just wanted to hear his name on her lips. Now, while he was still here.

  “Shh,” he murmured, then leaned closer as if to silence her with the touch of his lips.

  A shiver ran up Anya’s spine, a shiver that would have found her regardless of whether they’d been in a snow cave or on a tropical island somewhere basking under a warm summer sun. Brock’s thumb moved in a slow, deliberate circle, caressing her cheek, and he lifted her face so it was aligned perfectly with his.

  There was a delicious moment of anticipation as she let her eyes drift closed and waited for their lips to meet, then a voice broke though the sweet silence.

  It was distinctly nontender. And very much non-Brock. “Hey, you two.”

  Anya’s eyes flew open, and she spotted Cole crawling on his belly, entering the cave. His eyebrows were crusted with frost, and a fine layer of snow tipped the edges of his eyelashes.

  At the sudden sight of Cole, Brock backed away from her so fast that he bumped his head on the cave wall behind him. “Ouch.”

  “You okay?” Cole eyed him with concern.

  When Brock merely nodded, Cole aimed a curious glance back and forth between the two of them. “Is everything all right in here?”

  “Yes.” Anya pasted on a smile.

  Brock cleared his throat. “Of course.”

  If Cole found it odd that the two of them were so quick to respond or that they now avoided looking at one another with a dogged determination, he didn’t give any indication. “Good. You can come on out now. Aspen alerted where Luke and I were hiding.”

  “Great,” Brock said.

  Was it her imagination, or did his voice sound oddly detached? What did that mean? What did any of this mean?

  It didn’t matter. This wasn’t the time or place to ask Brock why he’d almost kissed her. She had a job to do and Cole was right there waiting for her to do it.

  Even so, her thoughts were far from the task at hand. They dwelled instead on Brock’s past, on a little boy waking up one snowy morning to find his brother gone.

  How does someone move past something so painful, even after all these years?

  “So Aspen found you. Super.” It was a valiant struggle to keep any traces of emotion out of her voice. “Sherlock and I are up now, right?”

  “Yep.” Cole worked his way backward until he’d shimmied out of the cave.

  When Cole offered her his hand to help her up and out, she hesitated.

  “Brock?” Anya glanced over her shoulder at him, but the vulnerable man she’d glimpsed only moments before was gone. His features were blank—rather stern, actually. Once again, he resembled the picture-perfect hero she’d found looking back at her from all those photos she’d seen on the Internet. And just like before, his blue eyes were focused on her forehead.

  “You should go up.” He pulled on his black knit hat and scooped Anya’s gloves off the cave floor.

  “Okay,” she said around the lump in her throat.

  She reached for her gloves. His fingertips grazed hers when she took them from him, and she couldn’t help but notice that the warmth was gone from his hands.

  They were as cold as ice.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Sherlock, come.” Brock stood ten or twelve feet away from the dog, an all but insignificant distance in the world of search and rescue training, and called Sherlock. Again. And again the dog ignored him.

  Brock took a few steps closer and tried the command once more. The results were the same. This time, as if to put a punctuation mark on his disobedience, Sherlock plopped down on his belly in the snow and rested his chin on his outstretched legs.

  Then the dog had the audacity to close his eyes.

  “Giving me the silent treatment today?” Brock sighed.

  He could appreciate the irony of the situation. Sherlock was treating Brock in the same manner in which Brock had been treating Anya since the near-kiss in the snow cave. Being on the receiving end of such behavior wasn’t at all pleasant, he noted.

  Not that everything had been all sunshine and roses on his end either. Simply put, he was miserable.

  Brock had carefully arranged his schedule over the past week so that his training schedule overlapped with Anya’s as little as possible. This morning, he’d dragged Sherlock to the mountain just so they could work on recalls while Anya was away. Brock now worked with the dogs one on one when she was at the coffee bar, and during those times she was present at the ski resort, he avoided being alone with her at all costs. Because apparently, he could no longer be trusted to behave in a professional manner.

  Not that avoiding someone was altogether professional.

  In truth, Brock was beyond the point of worrying about professionalism. Out of necessity, he’d switched to personal protection mode. He’d crossed a line when he’d told Anya about his past. Now there was no going back, but he was incapable of moving forward.

  So that left him where, exactly?

  Missing her, he mused, as Sherlock let loose with a snore loud enough to start an avalanche.

  “Bud, wake up. You’re not getting off that easy.” Brock gave Sherlock a gentle nudge with the toe of his hiking boot.

  The dog begrudgingly got to his feet.

  “Let’s try this one more time.” Brock ran a hand over Sherlock’s head.

  The dog peered up at him. For a moment, Brock imagined he could see a profound wisdom in Sherlock’s eyes. The soft gold of his irises seemed to hold all of Brock’s secrets, as though Sherlock knew precisely why Brock was acting the way he was toward Anya. Knew and clearly didn’t approve.

  A voice broke out in the stillness of the mountainside. “Having trouble with Sherlock again?”

  Brock turned to find Jackson walking toward him, with Aspen bounding alongside. When Aspen saw Brock, he broke away from Jackson’s side. The dog romped toward Brock, then back again, as if torn between two masters. Normal behavior for a pup still in training. As far at the other end of the spectrum from Sherlock’s deliberate moodiness as it got.

  Brock hung his head in frustration. “You could say that.”

  “Sorry. Let me know if I can help.” Jackson glanced at Sherlock, and the dog wagged his tail.

  “Thanks,” Brock said, knowing even as he did that he wouldn’t take Jackson up on his offer. He knew instinctively that it wouldn’t help.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say Sherlock is mad at you.” Jackson frowned. “He doesn’t even want to look at you.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  Jackson raised his brows. “Not to pry, but is Cole mad at you too?”

  Brock’s gaze darted immediately to Jackson. “What? Why would you think that?”

  “Just something Cole said.” He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. It’s probably nothing. I’m sorry I asked. I’m sure if there was a problem, you’d know about it.”

 
There was indeed a problem. Multiple ones, in fact. Brock just hadn’t realized Cole was privy to that illustrious list. Brock’s mess of a relationship with Anya ranked as number one, followed by Sherlock’s naughty streak.

  “What exactly did Cole say?” Maybe if he could narrow things down, Brock could begin to repair whatever damage had been done.

  Right. Look what happened last time you tried to fix things with Anya—you ended up kissing her.

  Technically, she’d kissed him. But it didn’t matter. If she hadn’t made the first move, he would have done so himself. He knew that now.

  “Cole just said you two needed to talk. That’s all.” Jackson pulled a tug toy out of his parka and Sherlock sprung to his feet, ready to play. “It’s probably nothing.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Brock said, even though deep down he wasn’t sure at all.

  He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

  * * *

  We need to talk.

  Brock figured it had to be one of the most dreaded phrases in the English language. And here he was, on the receiving end of it.

  “We need to talk,” Cole said, sounding uncharacteristically business-like from the other end of the phone line, although Brock could have been imagining the sudden change in his demeanor. Was there a nonthreatening way in which to issue such a statement? If so, he’d never heard it.

  “Okay.” Brock reached for Sherlock and gave him a good rub between the ears, usually a gesture meant to reassure the dog. Funny how it worked the other way around too.

  “Can you come in early today? There are some things we need to discuss.”

  Brock glanced at his Swiss Army watch. There were still no clocks in the house he’d rented for his duration in Aurora. They fell into the category of items he usually didn’t bother to unpack. “Sure. Do you want me to head over?”

  “That would be great. See you soon.” Cole hung up.

  Brock shoved his cell phone in his pocket and reached for his parka. “Come on, boys. No rest for the weary.”

  Sherlock and Aspen sprung to their feet, and he couldn’t help but laugh. Those two were hardly weary. They didn’t know the meaning of the word. Four straight hours of training last night on the mountain, and they were already anxious to give it another go.

  They’d make great rescue dogs. Aspen would anyway. Sherlock was still far too attached to Anya for Brock to have any idea how he would adjust to working with his permanent handler. And this business about him refusing to obey Brock just wasn’t acceptable. Perhaps Cole had gotten wind of the situation, and that’s why he’d summoned Brock to the patrol headquarters.

  We need to talk.

  The words haunted him as he snapped leashes on Sherlock and Aspen’s harnesses and loaded them into the truck. His temples throbbed. Hadn’t he done enough talking lately?

  He’d certainly done a lot of talking the week before when he’d been hiding in the snow cave with Anya. He’d told her things he’d never before shared with anyone. In all the years he’d been traveling the world, Brock had never once explained to another living soul why he did it.

  Brock wished he could blame his sudden frankness with Anya on some sort of idea of reciprocity. She’d shared her past with him, so naturally he’d wanted to share his with her. But deep down, he knew reciprocity had nothing to do with why he’d told her about his brother.

  He’d wanted to tell her. Everything. Including how for the first time in his life, he was tempted to stop. To just stay right where he was and breathe in the cold Alaskan air day after day. For the rest of his life. As if telling her such things could somehow make them possible.

  Brock knew better. He and Anya may have been protected from the outside world while they’d hidden behind the crystal walls of that snow cave, but the past always had a way of finding him. There was nowhere he could hide.

  As he drove past Aurora Community Church on the way to the ski mountain, he remembered what Anya had said about God.

  He can help you.

  But could He? Could He really?

  Brock wasn’t so sure. Where had God been that night when Drew disappeared? And where had He been in the tortured years since?

  His gaze was drawn toward the building’s tall white steeple like a magnet. He tried to remember the last time he’d been in a church. About a year and a half ago he’d spent three solid days living out of an old-world cathedral high atop a mountain in the Italian Alps. The cathedral had opened its doors and become the headquarters for the avalanche search team he’d helicoptered in with after a deadly slide in the area. Brock had slept—or tried to sleep—each of the three nights on a pew. He could remember lying there, his body and spirit both weary from days of searching for survivors he’d ultimately never found, staring up at the moonbeams shining through the stained glass windows in sapphire shafts of light. Despite the failure pressing down on him from an unsuccessful search, he’d felt a sudden stillness come over him. It didn’t make any sense at all, but in that moment he’d experienced the closest thing to peace that he’d known since he was a kid, since before Drew had disappeared.

  Still, Brock didn’t suppose that incident really counted. He hadn’t heard any sort of sermon, hadn’t uttered a word of prayer. He’d done nothing but eat, sleep and care for the search dogs in that holy building—and even then, only when darkness and weather conditions rendered rescue attempts impossible.

  Brock pressed on the accelerator and refocused on the matter at hand as the church vanished from his rearview mirror.

  We need to talk.

  Brock had a feeling he knew exactly what Cole wanted to talk about, and it wasn’t Sherlock’s rebellious streak.

  It was Anya.

  Brock had very nearly kissed her. During a training exercise. What had he been thinking? And since then he’d avoided her like the plague. He was certain the situation hadn’t escaped Cole’s notice.

  As Brock pulled his truck into the small lot at the base of the mountain, he couldn’t help but wonder how much Cole had seen when he’d crawled into the snow cave. He slammed the truck into park and realized it didn’t matter what Cole had seen. The air had been so thick with emotion, anyone could have felt it. Cole must have known he’d stumbled onto something. Something Brock had no business pursuing.

  When he walked into the cabin and saw Anya sitting across the worn wooden table from Cole, he knew without a doubt that his suspicions were right. This conference was definitely about the two of them.

  The pain in Brock’s temples intensified. He could understand Cole being upset with him, but was it really necessary to force Anya to sit through this meeting? The fault rested entirely on his shoulders. She didn’t deserve this.

  Brock did his best to send her a silent apology with his eyes, but his efforts were lost in the frenzy that ensued when Sherlock spotted Anya. The dog lunged straight toward her in a blur of unbridled, tail-wagging affection. Before Brock could utter a command, Anya had Sherlock situated in a calm sitting position at her feet.

  Cole shook his head and laughed. “That dog would walk over hot coals for you.”

  “Hot coals? I’m not so sure about that,” Anya said with a self-deprecating smile tipping her lips. “But he’s a good boy. Aren’t you, Sherlock? That’s right. You’re a good boy.”

  Sherlock’s tail thumped on the hardwood floor with enough enthusiasm to rock the cabin. Despite the nagging sense of dread in Brock’s gut about the purpose of the meeting, he smiled. He gave Aspen a hearty scratch behind the ears so he wouldn’t feel left out of the excitement and then sank into the seat halfway between Anya and Cole.

  Cole wasted no time getting right down to business. “I’d like to thank the two of you for coming in so early this morning. I can’t help but think you both have a good idea why I’ve called you here.”

  Brock’s
gut twisted. Of course he knew why he was here. That didn’t mean he was happy about it. He cast another apologetic glance at Anya, but her gaze was fixed directly on Cole.

  “I’ve been giving our situation quite a bit of thought.” Cole paused.

  So things had progressed to a situation.

  Great. Just great.

  Cole folded his hands in front of him. “The way I see it, there’s only one solution.”

  Brock braced himself. Either he was about to be fired for the first time in his career, or Anya was being dumped from the training team. If it was the former, at least he knew he had a job waiting for him in Utah. Guy Wallace had been relentless, leaving voicemails on his phone every two or three days.

  If it was the latter and Anya was the one being given walking papers, Brock and Cole would be having words.

  Cole took a deep, audible breath. Then he smiled, which Brock found odd. “Anya...”

  Beneath the table, Brock’s fists clenched.

  “...you’ve really impressed me with the work you’ve done with Sherlock thus far. As you know, it’s been my hope that Brock would agree to stay on here in Aurora and run our search dog program. It doesn’t look like he’s ready to make that kind of commitment.”

  Brock’s fists clenched tighter. Where was Cole going with this? It suddenly didn’t appear as though anyone would be let go, but Brock nevertheless felt distinctly uncomfortable with the discussion.

  Was it really necessary to bring attention to his lack of “commitment”? Hearing Cole’s words through Anya’s ears made Brock cringe.

  Cole’s gaze flitted from Anya to Brock. “To that end, I’ve decided the best thing might be to make Anya an official, full-time, paid member of the Aurora Ski Patrol Unit. If she’s interested, that is. What do you think, Brock?”

  It was the last thing Brock had expected, although he wasn’t sure why. Now that Cole had made the suggestion, it seemed like the obvious solution.

  Still, something within him railed against the idea. How could it be that Anya—the one woman who’d ever made him wish he could let go of the past and build a life, a real life, with someone—would end up being the one person who could make his departure possible? If this were to happen, if Anya were to become Sherlock’s handler, the ski patrol’s problems would be solved, for the most part. For all intents and purposes, she would be his ticket out of Aurora. He could leave as planned and not suffer a moment’s worry about the avalanche search dog program he was leaving behind.