Page 19 of Rescued By the Dog Trainer

"You're not back on that flight deck, Major." His voice drops into a low gravelly vibration right against my collarbone. "And you're not alone out here. Juno needs you. She's scanning the runs right now because she knows you're holding back. She's waiting for you to show up for her." His thumb glides slowly over the skin of my cheekbone, his grey eyes locking onto mine. "And it isn't just Juno. I'm waiting for you to show up, too."

My breath hitches in my throat.

The heat between us is sudden and suffocating. He leans in closer, crowding my space until his chest pins me against the wall, his warm breath fanning across my cheek. My hand comes up between us, pressing flat against the rough canvas over his chest, intending to push him back. But under my palm, the heavy thud of his heart matches the frantic leap of my pulse.

His gaze drops to my mouth. His jaw tightens, his head tilting down an inch, his mouth hovering close enough that his breath heats my lips.

Boots sound on the floorboards, walking into the hallway from the main bar. The quiet veteran with the gray-muzzled shepherd at his heel approaches, his coat buttoned tight, his scuffed leather notebook tucked away. He doesn't look at us, his gaze fixed on the back exit as his boots scrape past on the pine.

The physical spell shatters.

Jason steps back two inches, his hand sliding off my jaw, but his eyes never break contact. His professional guard slams back into place in a single heartbeat, his shoulders squaring as he reclaims his instructor posture.

"Tomorrow. Seven-thirty. The back stall." His voice drops into that flat, rank-stripping register, but the heat in his grey eyes tells a different story. "Don't be late, Major. Let's see if you can take a lead when nobody's watching."

He pulls his collar tight against the draft, his keys jingling as he turns toward the exit. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, he steps out into the falling snow, leaving the blizzard wind to rattle the frame behind him.

The mountain draft hits my skin, freezing the damp heat under my collar. But my chest stays tight, and my pulse thuds heavily in the sudden quiet of the hall.

SIX

Anchor

JASON

I don't break my rules. Not for trainees. Not for anyone.

Yet at seven-twenty in the morning, I'm standing in the freezing draft of the back stall, working a stiff leather lead and watching the clock on the tack room wall.

I spent the night listening to the wind rattle the bunkhouse stove, unable to shake the memory of the tavern hallway. The thud of Maren's pulse under my thumb. The way her mouth hovered an inch from mine before Shaw walked past us down the hall. He made it through the program in the first class. Steady, his shepherd working clean.

I gave her an order: seven-thirty for early feed detail. Penalty for showing up late on day one.

Thirty minutes before the rest of the crew arrives. Thirty minutes alone in a quiet barn. I told myself it was about discipline, about seeing if she could handle a lead without her guard up. But standing here in the cold, watching the minute hand drag toward the half-hour, I know damn well why I set the clock.

The outer barn latch clicks.

The heavy door swings inward, letting in a swirl of fresh powder. Maren stands in the threshold, her canvas coat buttoned to her throat and her wool cap pulled low. Her face is pale, but she stands straight, her right knee locked, her weight shifted onto her left boot to keep pressure off the joint.

She closes the heavy door behind her, the latch dropping with a thud that echoes in the rafters.

"Seven-twenty-eight." Maren walks down the aisle, her boots scraping the frozen cedar shavings. She stops five feet away, her hands tucked deep into her pockets, her chin level. "I'm on time."

"Seven-twenty-eight is two minutes from being late." I keep my eyes on the lead.

"The switchbacks were ice-packed. The 4Runner slid twice on the loop." She shifts her weight to keep pressure off her knee.

The silence between us is thick, carrying the weight of the PickAxe hallway. She has her guard up, her jaw set, her eyes cold as the summit run. She wants to pretend my hand wasn't on her jaw last night. She wants to pretend she didn't lay her palm over my chest to feel the beat of my heart before Shaw walked past us down the hall.

"Get Juno." I drop the greased lead onto the pine tack box.

She stands frozen for three seconds, her blue eyes tracking the scars on my knuckles. Then she turns, her stride rigid as she walks down the kennel row toward run seven.

The Malinois comes out of the gate with her ears high and swiveling like radar dishes, her amber eyes hyper-scanning the rafters before locking onto Maren's boots. Her tail is low and stiff, the sable hair along her spine standing on end as she absorbs the tension coming down Maren's lead.

Maren clips the line, keeping the lead short. She brings Juno into the empty back stall, her fingers choked up near the brass snap, straining the dark leather of her gloves.

Juno pulls, her front claws digging into the dry cedar shavings. Her gaze fixates on the dark corners of the stall, her body vibrating like a high-tension wire.