Page 20 of Rescued By the Dog Trainer

"She won't settle." Maren's fingers strain near the brass snap, her jaw set tight. "The moment I shorten the lead, her shoulders lock down."

"She's locking down because you're locking down." I stand near the timber post, Barnaby sitting silent at my side. "Look at your hand."

"My hand is steady."

"Your hand is a vise." I step off the post, closing the distance until I can smell the cold spruce on her coat. "You're choking the leather. You've got the lead wrapped twice around your wrist like you're trying to keep a patient from falling off a gurney. Juno isn't a patient. She's your mirror."

"If I give her slack, she bolts." Maren's blue eyes flare, her jaw tightening.

"She bolts because you're tense. Every bit of tension in your arm goes straight down the lead. You're telling her to expect a fight."

I step behind her.

She goes stone-still, her wool collar brushing my chest, her height leaving her head level with my collarbone. The tight rattle of her breathing beats against my ribs, the heat of her neck rising as her shoulders lock rigid.

"Let go of the loop."

"Pike—"

Before she can argue, I reach around her shoulders, my chest framing her back, my scarred hands coming down over her gloved fingers. The canvas of my sleeves rubs against her coat, trapping her in my space.

Her fingers are freezing under the leather. I place my palm over her grip, my fingers forcing hers to relax, sliding the loop off her wrist until the lead hangs free between her thumb and index finger.

"The grip comes from the palm, not the wrist." I lean close to her ear, my breath warm against her wool cap. "If you choke the line, you lose the signal. Keep the lead draped. Like this."

I slide my fingers down her hand, adjusting her thumb, flattening her palm against the leather. Her skin is warm where the glove parted, her pulse a fast thrum under my thumb. She yields to the correction, her shoulders dropping two inches, her body weight settling back against the canvas of my chest.

A quick puff of her breath rises, dissolving into the rafters.

"Don't pull back." I keep my hands over hers, the line slack between us. "If she moves, you absorb the weight with your elbow. The wrist stays soft. Like a spring."

Juno stops pacing. The Malinois swivels her head, her amber eyes tracking our hands, then Maren's face. Her tail drops, her front legs settling into the shavings, her breathing slowing as she watches the flat line of the leather.

"She's quiet." Maren's breath catches, her eyes fixed on the relaxed leather in her palm. Wonder softens her posture as she watches Juno rest her muzzle against the cedar shavings. "All I did was loosen my grip."

"Now she's listening."

"What if she bolts?"

"She won't." I release her hands, leaving the lead in her palm. "A chain creates resistance—the harder you pull, the harder she fights. An anchor gives her somewhere steady to land. Be the steady one."

I step back toward the timber post. The draft fills the gap between us, cooling the heat where our coats brushed. I shove my hands into my vest pockets to keep from pulling her back against my chest.

Maren stands still. She keeps her palm flat, the lead draped loose, Juno sitting quietly at her side.

"You have an interesting way of working with dogs, Pike." Maren looks up, meeting my eyes. "It's not what I expected."

"Most people expect a drill sergeant." I keep my hands in my pockets. "I just pay attention to what the dog is telling me."

"And what is she telling you now?" Maren's gaze stays fixed on the quiet Malinois.

"She's telling me she's ready to work." I check Juno's alignment. "Move her to the back rail. No voice. Just the body turn."

Maren shifts, her right knee giving a quiet pop as she turns. She keeps her expression smooth, her stride short, her hand steady on the draped lead. Juno follows her heel, her sable head level with Maren's thigh, her eyes locked on Maren's shoulder.

We run the turns until the clock above the tack room door reads eight-thirty.

The heavy double doors of the barn slide back with a rumble of frozen rollers, letting in a blast of mountain air and the chatter of the other trainees. Danny Montoya walks in first, his cheeks red, his canvas vest stiff, stomping the snow off his boots. Nadia Vega follows, her hands tucked deep into the pockets of her jeans.