Page 30 of Rescued By the Dog Trainer

I collapse against the stainless exam table, my lungs burning from the frozen air, my right knee trembling so hard I have to lock my joint to stay upright.

In the heavy quiet of the heated room, I glance up.

Jason stands five feet away with Barnaby at his knee, his canvas coat encrusted in white armor, his chest heaving as he tracks my face.

I ran the entire rescue with my knee throbbing like fire, in a wind that ate every spoken word. And through two hundred yards of zero-visibility whiteout, Jason's hand signals were the only language that never dropped out.

TEN

Adrenaline

JASON

"Hold the leg steady." Wyatt Calhoun keeps his eyes locked on the traction splint as he pulls the canvas strap tight across Danny Montoya's right thigh. "I need thirty pounds of counter-tension until the transport unit arrives from the valley."

"I've got it." I step in beside the stainless steel exam table and place my palms against the timber block under Montoya's knee.

Barnaby sits at my left heel with his head resting against my leg. Atlas props his muzzle on the doorway threshold. The elder dog offers a single slow tail thump before settling into his blanket.

"Valley emergency dispatch confirmed two snowcats leaving the lower depot at six in the morning." Bella Calhoun hangs up the satellite landline with a click. Wyatt's wife and refuge co-director carries the steady calm of a veteran crisis hotline counselor. Her chestnut braid rests over her shoulder as her hazel eyes track Montoya's breathing. "The pass remains closed to ambulances until the rotary plows clear the upper cut."

"Danny's breathing is regular." Maren checks the pulse in Montoya's neck under her breath. "Core temperature is coming back up." She adjusts the foil wrap over Montoya's chest. "The silver wrap and Buddy's body heat caught him before the shock set in."

She stands at the head of the table with the quiet calm of someone who's spent years saving lives under fire. Maren keeps her voice low and steady. No panic, no wasted motion. Her winter-blue eyes focus on the patient while the mountain storm rattles the reinforced glass behind her.

"Head back to the bunkhouse." I turn toward Griffin Reed, who stands near the clinic entrance holding Chief's lead. "Let the crew know Danny's stable. Get your gear stowed, get Chief fed, and get four hours of sleep. I'll watch the kennel monitors."

"I can stay." Griff shifts his weight, his broad shoulders blocking the hallway frame. "I can run watch on Montoya if you need an extra set of hands."

"Between myself, Maren, Wyatt, and Bella, we have him covered." I gesture toward the door with a quiet nod. "The road isn't opening tonight, and the storm's sitting on the peak until dawn. Get dry. Feed Chief. Get some rest."

Griff nods once. He turns toward the covered breezeway, Chief following in a tight heel at his side. The heavy oak door thuds shut behind them, sealing out the draft.

Outside, the backup diesel generator hums in its insulated housing beneath the north eaves. The unit maintains a steady sixty-five degrees across the heated kennel pads where the shelter's rescue animals sleep. Emergency floor lights illuminate the wide aisle and cast amber light across the pine beams. The storm wind howls off the high peak and drives snow against the clinic's double-paned glass windows.

"I'll stay with Danny." Wyatt pulls a blanket over Montoya's chest and adjusts the IV line dripping saline into his left arm. "There's coffee in the kitchen. You look like you walked through a timber mill."

"I'm fine." Maren remains motionless at the head of the table. "I'll monitor his vitals every fifteen minutes." She flexes her right hand while her knuckles turn red in the freezing wind.

"You're not fine." I step around the foot of the stainless steel table and reach gently for the zipper of her wet coat. "Your coat's frozen solid. Come on. Step out of the heavy gear before you catch a cold."

She looks up at me, her eyes softening for a second. She hates being hovered over, but she lets me ease the stiff blue canvas off her shoulders. The heavy coat drops onto the timber bench. Her gray thermal shirt clings to her form. Snow melted across her collarbone where the wind blew down her neck.

My pulse quickens as I catch the soft scent of rain and cedar on her skin.

"Get some coffee in you." Bella opens the inner door and gestures toward the kitchen behind the pharmacy desk. "Wyatt and I've got Danny. Not that it's much, but there's a spare bed in Jesse's old room. Wyatt, or I, will wake you if needed, but the two of you look like you've been through hell and need sleep."

Maren hesitates for two seconds while tracking the saline drip above Montoya's head. She turns and steps into the back room. I follow her and let the insulated door swing shut behind us.

The break room is small, heated by a cast-iron wood stove in the corner that smells of split birch and resin. A single overhead bulb casts an amber glow across the pine table and the silver enamel coffee pot resting on the stovetop. Down the short residential hallway behind the kitchen, the clinic's two private bedrooms sit quiet—Wyatt's room on the left, and Jesse Marsh's former room on the right. Both rooms have timber beds. The dry heat hits our faces and chases away the bone-deep chill of the fifteen-below whiteout.

Juno slips through the doorway before the latch catches. Her sable coat is dry now. Her eyes remain fixed on Maren's hip. The Belgian Malinois washout doesn't pace or scan for exits. She walks flush to Maren's left leg and takes her post beneath the pine table with a long sigh. Barnaby follows Juno into the room and sprawls near the warm stovepipe with his chin resting on his paws. I crouch beside Barnaby for a moment and run my thumb over his paw pads to clear two small ice balls from between his toes before he settles back into the cedar shavings.

"Here." I grab two tin mugs from the shelf above the sink and pour the black coffee straight from the pot. "Drink while it's hot."

"I'm fine." Maren takes the mug from my hand. Her fingers brush mine over the tin. A spark of heat arcs through the contact. Her skin's cold, but the pull beneath it's instantaneous, heavy and hot. I step back, anchoring my hips against the edge of the timber counter, wrapping my hands around a separate mug while she drinks.

"You pushed hard out there." I hold her gaze across the small gap between us. "That knee is giving you hell, isn't it?"