Page 80 of Rescued By the Dog Trainer

I lean against the weathered cedar doorframe, looking out into the mountain night.

High above the timberline, the jagged peaks of the Continental Divide pierce the black sky, frosted in silver under the light of a full mountain moon. The pine boughs are quiet. The gale has passed.

A soft melody rises in the back of my throat.

The notes rise without thought. My lips part, humming into the cool night air.

Three low, steady notes.

The lullaby I hummed over the roar of four jet turbines while the Black Sea turned beneath our wings. The song I sang into the ear of a dying sergeant to keep his heartbeat tethered to this earth.

Juno sits beside my boot. Her head tilts, amber eyes reflecting silver moonlight.

From the dark shadow of the south paddock fence, a second voice joins the melody.

Jason steps out from behind the timber gate.

He wears his heavy flannel shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, his dark hair ruffled by the mountain breeze. Radar walks beside his left heel, while Barnaby ambles behind with his tongue lolling contentedly.

Jason keeps the melody unbroken.

His gravel baritone rises on the second bar, catching the harmony with effortless precision. Every note is his now. The cadence. The silence between the chords.

He stops three inches in front of me.

The night is thirty degrees, but the heat radiating from his chest warms the space between us like a banked stove.

His right hand rises without reaching for my waist, stopping level with his chest, turning flat.

Palm down. Fingers closed.

Steady.

The hand signal he drew on Day Two. The gesture he gave me across the PickAxe floorboards when the mountain noise threatened to drown my voice.

I look up into the slate-grey of his eyes, seeing the fortress gone, replaced by a broad horizon that stretches as far as the Continental Divide.

My right hand lifts.

I press my open palm flat against the back of his fingers, sliding our hands together until our palms meet, our fingers lacing tight between our beating hearts.

Outside, the mountain holds its breath.

Inside the circle of our hands, the ground holds steady.