Page 76 of Rescued By the Dog Trainer

"Folks."

His deep baritone cuts through the laughter, drawing every eye forward.

"Two months ago, six men and women arrived at Angel's Peak carrying wounds the valley couldn't see. Tonight, five teams walk out of here with red vests on their dogs. And down in the valley, Danny Montoya is putting weight back on his feet, working with Buddy until the June class."

Applause rolls through the tavern. Heavy boots stomp in unison.

Wyatt steps back, gesturing toward the center aisle.

"Jason, the floor is yours."

My boots hit the timber steps.

Barnaby sits square at the base of the platform, his heavy jaw resting on his paws. Radar lies tucked against his flank, watching the crowd with steady vigilance.

On the pine table beside the hearth, five red nylon vests sit folded in a neat stack, each embroidered with the silver shield of the Jesse Marsh Refuge.

"Sarah Garrison. Present your partner."

Sarah steps into the clearing, her chin lifted high. The Marine truck commander walks with an even stride, her prosthetic leg quiet on the floorboards as Tank moves flush against her right hip. I kneel, sliding the broad harness over the ninety-pound mastiff's chest. The buckle snaps shut. Tank leans his massive bulk against Sarah's thigh, grounding her center. The tavern erupts in applause as they take their place beside the platform.

"Griffin Reed. Present your partner."

Griff walks forward, broad shoulders relaxed. Chief trots at his left heel, the black Lab's coat gleaming under the lanterns. The nylon straps click home over Chief's ribs, and Griff's scarred hand rests over the red vest, his five white suture marks catching the light.

"Brody Gavin. Present your partner."

Brody leads Babe into the center. The twitch in the Army Ranger's fingers settles the moment the golden retriever halts at his side. I secure the chest buckle, and Babe looks up into Brody's face with calm devotion. Brody exhales, his posture softening as the crowd cheers.

"Nadia Vega. Present your partner."

Nadia steps out with Zip, the border collie locked onto her hand cues with sharp discipline. The harness locks into place, and Nadia smiles, wrapping both arms around Zip's neck before stepping into line.

Four teams. Four sets of red vests gleaming under the cedar rafters.

I turn back toward the center of the clearing.

"Handler Maren Hale. Present your partner."

Maren steps out onto the center floorboards.

She wears a grey wool sweater, dark trousers, and polished leather boots. Her chin is lifted, her winter-blue eyes calm and clear. Hands resting relaxed at her sides. No braced shoulders. No flight-suit armor.

Juno sits beside her right boot. Square. Balanced. Black muzzle raised to Maren’s hip.

The tavern is an obstacle course of sensory chaos. Forks clatter on porcelain three feet from Juno’s tail. A waitress steps behind her carrying a loaded tray of beer steins. Two golden retriever pups from the valley farm whine from a booth across the room.

Juno holds stone-still. Amber eyes fixed on Maren’s face.

I lift the final red vest from the table.

"Belgian Malinois, shelter intake number two-zero-nine."

The words leave my throat in a measured cadence that carries to every corner of the tavern.

"Known as Juno. Brought into Angel's Peak as an unmanageable transfer stamped final placement. Registered hyper-vigilance, perimeter pacing, barrier frustration."

Across the table, Eleanor Morgan takes a slow sip of chicory coffee, the corners of her mouth twitching with vindication.