Page 49 of Rescued By the Dog Trainer

Her boots stop against mine. She slides her hands under the hem of my canvas vest, wrapping her arms around my waist. Her forehead presses flat against the center of my chest, right over my sternum.

I wrap my arms around her shoulders and hold her tight.

Her hair carries the faint scent of lavender soap from Mabel's guest house. Under my palms, the knot of tension between her shoulder blades uncoils, her breath warming the flannel of my shirt.

"Thank you for dinner." Her voice muffles against my collarbone.

"Any time."

She tilts her head back, eyes looking straight into mine in the dim yellow glow of the lantern. She slides her hands up from my waist, fingers trailing over my throat until her palms cup my jaw. Her thumbs are rough from winter air, but her touch is gentle.

I bend down and cover her mouth with mine.

The kiss is deep, hungry, and heavy with the words neither of us has the courage to speak. Her lips part with a soft gasp, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck as she pulls me down against her.

I walk her backward toward the bed in the corner of the room. We undress each other without turning on the lamp, shedding flannel, thermals, and wool by the dull red light filtering through the stove vents. When she reaches for her boots, I kneel on the floorboards. I cup her right heel in both hands and ease the leather off her foot without twisting the guarded knee.

She rests her bare foot warm against my thigh while I unlace the left boot and set them both by the wall.

When I climb onto the mattress, she reaches for me, pulling my weight down until our chests press together.

There's no rush in her touch. Her hands explore my body with quiet reverence, understanding what it cost to survive broken bones and blast shrapnel. Her fingers trace the burn scar across my shoulder, trailing down my ribs to the raised seam on my inner thigh.

She lingers on that scar. Her palm rests flat against the seam where surgeons pieced my artery back together five years ago, her fingers trembling against my skin.

I shift onto my forearms, looking down at her face in the shadows. Her eyes are open, watching me with an expression so tender and raw that it makes my throat ache.

"Maren." My voice sounds rough as gravel.

She slides her arms around my neck, parts her thighs, and pulls me inside her with a long, shuddering sigh that catches against my jaw.

We move together slow, matching the rhythm of the mountain wind outside the walls. Her heels dig into the backs of my calves, nails pressing into the muscle of my shoulders as heat climbs between us. Every stroke is deliberate, an anchor dropped in deep water. When she comes, she buries her face in the crook of my neck, teeth catching against my skin as she cries out.

I follow her over the edge a breath later, holding her hips tight against mine while the world narrows down to the sound of her breath against my ear.

We lie tangled under the heavy down quilt while our breathing slows to normal. Juno is a dark shape curled at the foot of the bed, her steady breathing joining Barnaby's from across the room.

Maren's head rests on my left shoulder, cheek pressed over my collarbone. Her fingers trace the scar on my chest in slow circles.

Three different times, her chest rises with a sharp intake of air, like she's gathering the courage to say something out loud.

Three times, she lets the breath out in silence and closes her eyes.

I smooth my hand over her hair and don't press. We lie there in the dark, keeping the peace, until her breathing deepens into the heavy rhythm of sleep an hour before midnight.

I wait until she's fast asleep before sliding my arm out from under her head. I tuck the wool quilt around her shoulder, swing my legs over the edge of the mattress, and pull on wool socks and flannel trousers.

The room has cooled, the floorboards freezing against my soles.

I cross the room to bank the wood stove for the night. On the way past the door pegs, Maren's canvas coat hangs lopsided, one sleeve slipping toward the floor.

I reach out to straighten it on the peg.

My fingers brush against the inside breast pocket. The canvas is stiff, weighted down by something solid and rectangular. A hard-backed book, zipped tight inside the lining right over her chest.

I stop with my hand resting on the fabric.

I don't unzip the pocket.