Page 63 of Rescued By the Dog Trainer

"Just sorting gear." The excuse sounds thin, even to my ears.

"Uh-huh." Mabel walks over to the window, peering out into the swirling dark where fresh snow is already drifting against the sills. "Jason's truck went past an hour ago. Heading down toward the south timberline to check the snowbreak gates before the blow hits."

"He shouldn't be out on those logging roads alone in this wind." A hollow cold drops through my sternum, chilling the ribs. "Not with a storm coming."

"Try telling that to Pike." Mabel turns, leaning against the window frame. "His daddy beat stubborn into him with a leather belt, and Jesse Marsh tried to hammer it out with a cedar post. Between the two of them, that boy learned how to take a beating without making a peep. But he never learned how to let somebody hold an umbrella over his head."

"He thinks I came here to collect a debt." I look down at my boots.

"Jason Pike doesn't think you're doing that to him." Mabel's voice softens, dropping low and steady. "He thinks you're a mirror. A man can hide from the whole world in a mountain kennel. He can convince himself he's whole as long as the dogs need breakfast. But when the person who pulled him out of hell walks through the front door, the walls don't work anymore."

She steps over, resting a flour-dusted hand on my shoulder. The touch is warm and grounded.

"Drink the cocoa." Her fingers tap the mug gently. "Leave that duffel bag alone. You didn't come all this way up a mountain just to pack up the second things got steep."

Morning on Day 13 brings the teeth of the front.

The thermometer outside the refuge intake office reads eight below zero. Ice coats the inside of the timber windows, turning the yard into a white blur of whipping flakes and frozen cedar posts.

Snow sits knee-deep in the south paddock.

Sarah Garrison works Tank near the far shelter, her parka puffing steam with every breath. The mastiff mix navigates the snowdrifts on a lead. Brody runs Zip through agility hurdles along the cedar rail, the border collie's tail flashing like a beacon in the squall.

Juno and I run the box pattern in the center ring.

"Heel."

Juno matches my stride, her black shoulder pressed firmly against my right leg. The biting wind tears at my wool scarf, but her focus never wavers. Every pivot requires shifting forty pounds of torque onto my injured knee.

On the third turn, my boot strikes a patch of hidden ice beneath the powder. My right joint gives out with a sharp pop.

Pain shoots through my hip. My balance folds, weight dropping toward the drift. But Juno throws sixty pounds of muscle into my knees, planting all four paws in the crust and wedging her back beneath my thigh. Her spine bows under my weight, locking her ribs against my pelvis, catching me before I hit the ice.

I grab her leather harness with both fists, breathing hard through my teeth while the joint spasms.

"Good girl." My gloved hand finds her flank until the spasm eases. "Good girl."

Across the paddock fence, twenty yards away, Jason stands rigid in the blowing snow. Gloved hands grip Barnaby's lead. His shoulders square against the gale. His fleece collar is turned high against the frost. For five seconds, the yard between us vanishes. His frame flinches forward, boots taking half a stride toward the gate.

Then he catches himself. The wall drops back over his face. His boots freeze in the drift. He pulls Barnaby's lead tight, turns away from the south paddock, and heads toward the feed barn without looking back.

Acid burns the back of my mouth. A bitter sound breaks against my teeth, swallowed by the wind.

"Good dog." My hand strokes her coarse ruff, forehead pressed against her neck. She licks frost off my knuckles. "Stay with me."

We finish the muster transitions in silence. When Jason calls end of drill, he dismisses the yard with a single flick of his glove, retreating into the barn before Sarah unclips Tank's lead.

I walk Juno down the snow-packed slope to the lower kennel run. My knee throbs with each downward step, heat radiating beneath the patella. Inside the run, I drop to the rubber matting, toweling sleet from Juno's chest and paws. She shoves her broad snout under my chin, whining low, leaning against my chest until I wrap both arms around her neck.

"You caught me." My cheek presses into her coarse ruff. "You didn't let me fall."

I top off her heated water bucket, scoop fresh kibble into the stainless steel bowl, and slide the heavy latch shut.

The squall intensifies across the mountain, turning the pines into whipping silhouettes against the gray sky. I retrieve the manila folder from the tack room locker—the rabies certificate and the weekly weight chart Wyatt requested—and tuck it inside my parka.

By two in the afternoon, the temperature outside drops past ten below. I climb the timber steps to the lodge, fighting each gust of wind, boots crunching through new drifts.

I push open the heavy front door.