Page 7 of Rescued By the Dog Trainer

He's easy.

He doesn't scan.

Eleanor's retyped slip says Juno. Eleanor took one look at this woman and rewrote the assignment. It took me less than that. I'm backing her call.

Maren Hale doesn't move toward run seven.

She steps toward me instead, her boots crunching in the wet gravel. She stops three feet back, close enough that the winter blue of her eyes is clear. Close enough that I catch the faint scent of lavender soap under the damp wool of her coat.

My chest tightens. She stands toe-to-toe with me, three feet off my chest, refusing to bow to my authority or back down from a challenge.

"Juno's kennel card is stamped final placement." She holds the folder tight against her side. "The notes say she refuses to settle. That she scans. What does that mean?"

"She won't lie down and turn off the threat." I step closer, my gaze locking onto hers. "Her head stays up, her eyes tracking every movement on the perimeter instead of trusting her handler. Just like you parked your truck aimed at the exit, keeping your chin up and your eyes on every fence line. You and Juno speak the same language."

"Then she's a failed dog."

"She's a work in progress."

"I'm here for a service dog, Mr. Pike. Not a project."

She drops into officer posture like armor, retreating behind chain-of-command rules to hide the raw fear in her eyes. She doesn't want a project because a project can fail. And Major Maren Hale doesn't believe she'll survive another failure.

I step forward, closing the last three feet until there's nothing between us but the cold air. Barnaby stays at my heel, his head up, his dark eyes on Maren's knees. At six-foot-three, my bulk dominates the space between us, blocking the wind. She's five-foot-six, forced to tilt her chin to meet my gaze, but she doesn't yield an inch.

"You crossed out patient on your intake sheet and wrote handler in ink." My voice is quiet, cutting through the cold wind. "You want to be a handler? Handlers take what the line offers. You don't get to order off a menu."

"I'm not asking for a menu." Her gloved fingers tighten on her folder. "I'm asking for a dog that won't fail."

"You're asking to be safe." I hold her gaze, watching the muscle jump in her jaw. "Why scratch it out, Major? Why refuse the label?"

"Because patients get pitied." Her eyes flash with fierce heat. "I spent eleven years bringing soldiers home in the back of a C-17. I'm not a casualty. I don't need a nurse, and I don't need pity. I'm here to do the work."

I don't pull back. Her pride is a wall, but there's raw steel behind it. The exact kind of steel Juno needs to anchor her.

"Then take Juno." I reach out. My hand is bare, the leather lead of Juno's collar looped twice around my wrist. I press the loop into her palm. My fingers brush hers—the skin of her hand is warm against the winter wind, sending an electric pulse through my chest.

Her fingers close around the leather, but she doesn't pull the lead toward her. Our hands stay there for one long beat, the leather lead the only tether between us.

"And if she fails?" Maren's eyes lock onto mine, the officer facade cracking to reveal the raw worry beneath. "That stamp makes run seven the end of the line. If she washes out with me, what happens to her?"

"She won't wash out unless you quit on her." I don't let go of the leather loop yet, my voice dropping low and hard. "Juno doesn't fail evaluations because she lacks drive. She scans because she hasn't found a handler with enough steel to watch her back. You're both hypervigilant, both holding your breath, waiting for the sky to fall."

"I don't quit on living things." Her knuckles whiten as she takes hold of the strap. "Not in the air, and not down here."

"Then don't fail her." I press the lead firmly into her palm and drop my hand. "If you learn to trust each other, you'll walk off this mountain together. I don't let my handlers fail, Major. And I don't let my dogs wash out."

I turn, raising my voice to address the yard. The others have stopped at their gates, watching us, their gazes tracking the black leather lead in Maren's hand.

"Orientation started at eight." My voice cuts flat and loud through the cold wind. "Rule number one on this mountain is showing up on time. If you're late, the work gets behind. If the work gets behind, the dogs pay for it."

I look back down at Maren Hale. The broad line of my shoulders blocks her view of the rest of the shelter, keeping her pinned in the shadow of my bulk.

"Since Major Hale arrived fifteen minutes late, she's volunteered for the early morning feed prep and the evening lockup checklist. For the next seven days."

A quiet murmur ripples down the kennel row, but nobody speaks up.

"That means she's in the feed room at seven-thirty, and she stays after five to walk the perimeter and lock down the barn." My voice carries across the quiet yard, my gaze locked on Maren. "With me. There are no exceptions, and there's no rank on this mountain that buys you a pass. We all pull the same weight."