Page 24 of Rescued By the Dog Trainer

"I brought the restock list." I set the tin box on the stainless counter. "And some extra 3-0 prolene from my truck kit."

Wyatt glances at the suture cards, then turns his perceptive gaze onto my face.

"You're favoring your right side." His observation stays neutral, filled with the steady watchfulness of a man who works with wounded veterans every day.

"It's just the cold." My hand hovers over the counter, my posture stiffening. "The switchbacks were icy."

"Heavy litters and rough landings." Wyatt sets a roll of vet wrap on the shelf, his tone steady. "Flight nurses take a beating on those C-17 ramps. Did the knee catch up to you in-theater?"

"Hard touchdown at Bagram." I fold my arms across my chest, the Major's guard staying high. "Blown cartilage and a torn meniscus. I wrapped it, took six ibuprofen a day, and kept flying until the VA medical board pulled my chart."

"And stamped your medical discharge." It's not a question. Wyatt looks at me with the empathy of a man who knows what it feels like to have your service ended by a piece of paper. "Grounding a flight nurse has to feel like losing an arm."

"I survived."

"Nobody's going to push you onto an exam table here, Major." Wyatt holds my gaze, his posture steady. "But Jason's program works best when people stop treating their wounds like classified files."

My throat goes tight. He sees right through me.

"I have to check Juno's run."

"Maren—"

Before he can answer, I spin on my left boot and push through the heavy double doors into the biting wind.

By one in the afternoon, the sky has collapsed.

The slate-grey clouds have dropped to the treeline, swallowing the jagged summit of Angel's Peak in a blinding wall of white powder. The wind comes down the gulch at forty miles an hour, rattling the tin roof of the training barn until the rafters groan under the weight.

Jason calls a mandatory briefing in the central aisle.

All six of us line up: Danny, Nadia, Brody, Griff, Sarah, and I. The dogs sit flush at our heels, sensing the pressure drop, their ears pinned against the whistling drafts.

Jason steps to the front of the aisle.

He looks massive in his canvas coat, the sheepskin collar turned up against his jaw. His face is hard, set in the composure of an operator preparing for a tactical operation.

"The pass is closed." Jason holds the aluminum clipboard in his gloved hand. "The county plows pulled off the pass ten minutes ago. We've got four feet of snow coming down before midnight, and the temperature is going to drop to fifteen below."

He glances at the clipboard.

"Montoya, Vega. You're on generator checks and fuel transfer. The diesel tanks are in the east shed. Keep the lines clear of ice."

"On it." Danny nods, stepping toward the aisle.

"Brody, Sarah. Kennel insulation. Drop the canvas thermal drapes over the outdoor runs and move the water buckets inside the heated barn."

They nod, stepping out of the line to start their details.

"Griff. You're with Barnaby on perimeter patrol until sixteen-hundred. Make sure the paddock gates are latched tight." Jason taps the clipboard against his thigh. "When your details are finished, pull the cots down from the loft. We're staging in the emergency bunk room above the tack room. It's six cots, tight quarters, and one wood stove. We stay in the barn where the dogs and the heat are."

"What about a watch rotation?" I step out from the line. "If the power drops or the generator fails, someone needs to monitor the kennel temps around the clock."

"Two-hour shifts." Jason taps the edge of the aluminum clipboard against his thigh. "Continuous rotation until the storm clears. Roster is on the tack room board."

Jason lowers the clipboard.

His eyes shift across the aisle, locking onto mine. For the first time all day, he looks directly into my face. His gaze is flat, stripped of yesterday's warmth and the memory of his soft touch. Just the cold assessment of a commander assigning a critical post.