Page 71 of Rescued By the Dog Trainer

The knee buckles inward with a sick, grinding jolt. Bone and scar tissue refuse my weight. Gravity takes the rest.

The timber planks tilt up fast. Inevitable.

Air punches from my lungs. Fire shoots from my knee straight up into my hip socket. Hot. Blinding.

Jason rolls off the emergency sled, kicking the thermal wraps aside. His bulk hits the floorboards beside me, taking the shock of the fall. A thick arm hooks around my ribs before my face plants on the floor, wrenching my weight back against his chest. Barnaby drops flat beside us with a low whine, his nose nudging Jason's sleeve.

"I've got you."

His words vibrate through his breastbone right into my cheek, leaving me rough and shaken. My forehead drops against the damp fleece of his collar, my breath tearing out in ragged hitches.

When in uniform, the rule was simple: you took care of the wounded; you never became one. When an injury happened, you locked your jaw and walked off the flight deck on your boots. But twenty-six months ago on Flight 402, an unmoored cargo crate crushed this joint to splinters. I spent two years learning to hide the limp, terrified that admitting the damage meant admitting my life in the Air Force was finished.

Now, sitting on the floor with my back braced against the pine baseboard, the armor is gone.

Still on the floorboards, Jason shifts onto his knees in front of me. His wool cap is gone. Dark hair clings damp to his forehead. His large hands, trembling with the aftermath of hypothermia, go straight to the soaked neoprene brace locked over my right knee.

He peels back the heavy Velcro straps.

The hook-and-loop fasteners pull free with a harsh screech across the quiet room.

He eases the steel hinges off my leg.

The joint is swollen to twice its size. Dark purple-red. Skin stretched tight and burning hot against the chill of the floorboards. Right down the center runs the jagged, ten-inch surgical scar where surgeons rebuilt my tibia with titanium plates and screws.

A sick wave of heat rises in my throat. I reach down, instinctively wanting to pull my wet trouser leg over the ruined joint, wanting to hide the ugliness of it.

Jason stops my hand. His fingers curl around my wrist, firm and warm.

The muscles along his jaw tighten into iron.

"You took that hit for me." His voice cracks. Stripped bare by the freezing mountain air. "You sacrificed your leg to keep me alive." He leans down. His eyes hold on the scar. He lowers his head until his forehead rests against the swollen skin of my knee. His breath heats the inflamed joint. His calloused palms cup the sides of my calf, anchoring the trembling leg against the cold wood. "Then you walked four miles up a mountain on that leg for me again."

"You were freezing—" I reach out, my hand finding the wet collar of his shearling coat. I pull gently until his head lifts and his eyes meet mine. "We don't leave people behind."

"No, we don't, and we don't let people bear their burdens alone."

Across the exam room, Wyatt lifts Radar onto the padded table. Bella wraps the young dog in heated fleece while checking his chest.

"Core temp is climbing. Radar has a bruise on his left flank, but no broken ribs. He needs warm broth and a heat pad. The two of you can go to the back room. Bella left clean wool socks and tea by the stove."

Wyatt keeps his back turned toward the counter, giving us the room.

Jason pushes up to his feet. His bad thigh hitches slightly as he takes his full height. He bends low, sliding one thick arm behind my shoulders and the other under my knees, lifting me off the floorboards.

"I can hop." My breath leaves me in a sharp gasp.

"You aren't hopping. Time for me to carry you."

His boots strike the cedar planks in a steady rhythm down the short hallway.

Barnaby flanks his left hip, his gray muzzle held low. Juno pads at his right heel, her nose pressed tight to the cuff of my dangling trouser leg. Both dogs keep pace until he reaches the door on the right.

Jesse Marsh’s former room is quiet.

Warm.

A single oil lamp burns on the corner desk, casting amber light across the wide pine bed. Two heavy wool quilts are turned back over the flannel sheets. Outside the double-paned window, the mountain blizzard drives needles of sleet against the glass. In the corner, the small wood stove ticks with steady heat.