Page 65 of Rescued By the Dog Trainer

I take the corner table beside the wood stove. The guest room down in town felt too far away tonight, separated from the kennels by two miles of switchbacks that will soon be impassable. From the inside pocket of my coat, I pull the manifest notebook.

I turn to page forty-four.

SORTIE 402 | SGT PIKE, J. — ALIVE.

I take my pen from my pocket. My hand doesn't shake. The ink catches the yellow light of the lantern. Beneath the entry, in the narrow white margin, I write two words in clean script:

Worth it.

I close the notebook. The cover snaps shut with a soft thud. The mission is over. The flight is closed.

The kitchen doors burst open with a crash that rattles brass cups on the sideboard.

Griff Reed stumbles into the dining room, caked in snow from his boots to his wool knit cap. His face is pale beneath windburn, his uninjured arm clutching a battery-operated emergency radio. Behind him, Wyatt Calhoun rushes out of the clinic hallway, a stethoscope still hanging around his neck.

"Griff." Wyatt grips the younger man's shoulder. "What happened? The repeater on the ridge went dead."

"He went up the logging cut." Griff's voice cracks, fighting for air. "He took the truck up two hours ago to check the snowbreak fence before the pass iced over."

"He went up the ridge in this storm?" Shock drops a dead weight into my stomach. My heart stumbles, skipping a beat before kicking into hard overdrive. I rise from the table, palm slamming flat against the vinyl ledger.

"He went further than the ridge." Griff shivers, snow melting on his collar. "He took Radar with him. The new Malinois mix from the lower kennels. The one who washes out on recall every time the wind howls."

"Why would he take a green dog up the mountain?" Wyatt's voice rises, sharp and furious.

"The timber broke, and Jason refused to let the pack freeze." Griff wipes sleet from his forehead. "His truck slid off the logging trail near Mile Marker Six. His radio transmission cut through twenty minutes ago—the front axle broke against a boulder, the battery's dying in the freeze, and Radar bolted into the timber when the tree crushed the hood."

"The line is dead." Wyatt slams the wall receiver back onto the cradle and turns toward us. "Pass is closed from the summit down. Search and Rescue won't dispatch a crew until the whiteout clears at sunrise."

"Sunrise is eight hours away." The triage math lands cold and immediate. "The temperature on that ridge sits at fifteen below. Forty-knot gusts bring hypothermia within forty minutes."

"Nobody can navigate that logging trail in a truck." Wyatt wipes a hand over his face, his jaw tight. "The snowdrifts past Mile Marker Four are four feet deep and climbing."

"A truck can't get through, but a dog can." There's zero hesitation on my part. "I'm harnessing Juno."

I shove the manifest ledger deep inside my zipped coat and grab my wool cap and leather gloves off the timber bench.

"Hold on." Bella steps around the counter, her voice dropping into the quiet authority she uses to talk people down from ledges. "You're not climbing that ridge alone on a damaged joint. If you collapse in a drift at fifteen below, we have two casualties to dig out instead of one."

"She isn't going alone." Griff grabs his canvas coat off the wall peg with his uninjured hand, his jaw set hard despite the white bandage on his forearm. "We pulled Danny off that mountain together. I'm not sitting by a stove while our trainer freezes at Mile Marker Six."

"Then we move together." Wyatt pulls his heavy parka off the timber peg beside the clinic door. "Those drifts bury the trail past the timberline. Griff, grab the emergency sled and snowshoes from the mudroom rack. We hike the logging cut."

The breezeway door bangs open with a freezing gust. Nadia strides into the entryway with Zip at her knee, stomping packed snow from her boots, her dark curls tucked under a wool cap. Behind her come Brody and Sarah, zipped into canvas parkas with snowshoes slung over their shoulders—Babe alert beside Brody, and Tank an anchor at Sarah's hip. Chief trots out from the clinic hallway, his black coat brushing against Griff's boots.

"You didn't think you were heading out without us?" Nadia pulls her thermal gloves tight, her gaze locking onto Wyatt. "The bunkhouse radio caught the distress call. Nobody leaves our trainer on that ridge."

"More boots, more noses." Wyatt nods with grim approval. "We sweep the cut in a staggered line."

"I'll hold down the fort." Bella steps behind the intake counter, clicking the emergency base radio into its charging dock. "I'll keep the repeater locked on channel three, bank the clinic wood stove, and lay out warmed saline and hypothermia wraps on the exam tables. Every emergency beacon is charged. You take the pack."

She crosses to the supply locker and hauls out canvas tracking vests, reflective harnesses, and a roll of heavy neoprene strapping.

"Barnaby has Jason's scent down to the bone." Bella hands me the neoprene roll, her eyes locking onto mine. "Atlas knows every deadfall on that mountain. Juno has your brace. Lock that knee down before you step off this porch."

I wrap the neoprene tight over my wool trousers, ratcheting the hinge until the joint locks solid. Pain bites deep and familiar, but my boots don't waver.

Barnaby charges into the entryway with an urgent whine, his heavy frame trembling with coiled energy. Atlas, the old man dog, steps beside him. His gray muzzle lifts, nostrils flaring as he tests the draft with the steady calm of years on this mountain. Down the breezeway, a sharp bark from Juno rings out, demanding her harness. Chief, Zip, Babe, and Tank flank the doorway with ears pinned into the gale.