Page 18 of Rescued By the Dog Trainer

A group of loggers at the center table laughs, a sharp explosion of sound hitting the timber rafters. A glass shatters on the hearth, breaking crystal ringing against the stone floor.

My chest locks. Air stops in my throat, my ribs clamping down so tight Eleanor's voice turns into distant static.

The rumble of the bar floorboards triggers a physical memory—the relentless vibration of C-17 engines over the Atlantic. Nine hours of steady roar, the cabin filled with the smell of aviation fuel and blood. Keeping patients alive in the dark, one vitals check at a time.

The nurse in me knows what this is. High-level sensory overload. Delayed trauma response. A textbook adrenaline hijack pulling a flight deck into a crowded mountain tavern. I know the anatomy of the panic, but knowing it doesn't stop my ribs from locking down.

My hands press flat against the table, my fingers trembling, my chin lifting to fight for air. The room spins, the oil lamps smearing into yellow streaks. I grip the edge of the pine board until my knuckles turn white, my breath coming in shallow gasps that don't reach my lungs.

Verify. Control. Check.

The protocol fails. The checks aren't working, and the noise keeps winning.

Through the yellow blur, across the crowded tavern, Jason shifts in his chair. He locks his grey eyes onto mine, catching my spiral in one unblinking glance.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his right hand.

He holds it at chest height—palm flat, scarred fingers spread wide, immovable amidst the chaos of the room.

The flat palm for steady. The first signal he taught me in the paddock, built for when the wind steals your voice.

He doesn't look at anyone else. His grey eyes lock onto mine, unblinking, his palm holding steady amidst the noise of the room.

I lock onto his hand. The weathered lines across his knuckles, the rough ridge of his thumb, the stillness of his hold.

No word is spoken, but the gravel of his voice carries in my memory, anyway. I track the white scar across his middle knuckle, the line of grease embedded under his thumbnail.

My chest expands. Air pulls deep into my lungs, cold pine and diesel biting the back of my throat as the lock in my ribs breaks.

One.

I exhale slowly, my eyes anchored to his palm.

Two.

The panic in my chest thins. The pressure recedes, dropping back to a manageable hum I can live with.

Eleanor gestures with her keys, her voice returning through the static. "...should have seen the size of the elk. Right in the middle of the road, bold as you please."

I release my grip on the table, my fingers steady now against the pine.

"Going to splash cold water on my face." I excuse myself from the table, though Eleanor is already lost in a story about the summit switchbacks.

As I stand, a scrape of chair legs on pine sounds near the kitchen door. Jason pushes up from his corner table, his dark coat unbuttoning as he rises.

A sharp sting of irritation hits my chest. I hate how transparent I was, how easily he read the crack in my armor from across a crowded room.

I turn toward the narrow hallway at the back of the tavern, lengthening my stride to reach the washroom before he can intercept me. But heavy boots crunch on the floorboards behind me, closing the distance before I make it to the door.

The back hallway is narrow, lit by a single dim bulb throwing long shadows against pine walls. Air cools here, smelling of damp wood and cedar.

"You went white in there." Jason steps around the corner, his broad frame blocking the narrow corridor.

"Don't know what you're talking about." I stop in the drafty hall, my right knee aching as I meet his gaze. "I'm fine."

"Don't lie to me." He steps off the wall, closing the space between us until the front of his dark coat presses against mine, trapping me against the timber post. The heat radiating off him cuts right through the corridor draft. "I know the tells. I know the signs. I spent two years staring into the bottom of a bottle, convinced there was no way out of the darkness. Convinced that if I just kept moving, I could outrun the noise—or that walking out into the snow and letting it all stop would be easier."

His hand comes up, his calloused thumb catching the curve of my jaw to tilt my face up. The touch is deliberate, a steady anchor demanding my focus.