Page 9 of Rescued By the Dog Trainer

My jaw tightens, the skin pulling against the bones of my face. CCATT crews don't explain. When an actuator freezes over the Atlantic, you log the fault code and hand it to the crew chief; you don't explain the wind shear to the machine. You take the reprimand and move on. Yet standing in the narrow aisle, with the kibble dust settling between us, an involuntary obligation to explain my timing rises.

I don't understand the reflex, only that under his steady stare, the explanation slips past my teeth before I can block it.

"The lane was black ice all the way up."

He turns then. He moves with a deliberate weight, his slate-grey eyes locking onto mine. He towers over me, blocking the light from the single bulb behind him, casting his shadow over the front of my coat.

"I don't accept excuses in my barn." His voice is flat as granite. "I demand work, and I demand dedication to the dogs. You just earned yourself another two days of chores."

His gaze drops down the length of my coat before returning to mine, making it clear the dedication isn't just for the animals.

The demand is personal.

He steps closer, closing the last two feet of the aisle. His heat is real. It carries a warm scent of cedarwood and black coffee. He looks like a man who knows exactly where his boundaries are and wants to see if I have the stomach to cross them. He reaches past my shoulder to pull a fifty-pound sack of working-dog kibble off the top rack, his chest brushing against my arm, pinning me lightly against the cold metal of the storage bin.

The contact is a shock of heat through my coat. My pulse spikes, pounding low in my throat. I should step back. Instead, my breath hitches, and for one terrifying second my body betrays me — a rush of heat straight down my spine for a man who makes my blood boil.

I force the reaction down, gripping the rim of the bin until the metal bites into my palms. No flush for him to see, no crack in my armor. I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze head-on.

"You're in my light, Mr. Pike."

"Jason." A muscle flexes along his jaw as he swings the heavy kibble bag down onto the deck with a thump. "Just Jason. Mr. Pike was my old man, and he spent thirty years using his fists to make people call him sir. I don't answer to his name in this barn."

His words drop into the cold space between us. I recognize that flat tone, the stripped-down cadence of a soldier carrying old scars. He isn't pulling rank or posturing; he's drawing a line around a boundary bought with blood. The sharp retort I prepared dissolves, replaced by the realization of what he just let slip.

"Loft sweep and wood stove stoking." He steps back, letting the freezing draft from the door fill the narrow aisle between us again. "Both. Before the morning session starts at eight. Assuming the ice doesn't hold you up again."

"I know how to handle the road."

"Then try leaving ten minutes early so you're on time tomorrow." He turns back to the bins, the scoop scraping against the tin.

The loft of the training barn is thirty feet of joists and dry spruce dust. I sweep it with a stiff-bristled broom, the rhythmic scrape-scrape of the broom bristles against the pine floorboards matching the count of my breaths. I stoke the cast-iron wood stove in the corner afterward, throwing four heavy logs of split birch into the firebox until the draft line glows orange in the dark.

The physical work is honest. It makes my shoulders ache, but it clears the noise, pushing the memories of flight engine vibrations away while the heat from the wood stove radiates into the cold barn, driving out the chill.

At seven-fifty-five, tires crunch through the slush outside. The rest of the group arrives, filing into the barn five minutes ahead of schedule.

"Seven-fifty-five." Jason wipes his hands on a shop towel as Sarah and Griff walk through the door. His gaze locks onto mine, cold, calling me out in front of the entire group. "Good to see the others know how to account for mountain weather."

My jaw tightens, but I keep my eyes on my work.

For the next fifteen minutes, the barn fills with the quiet rhythm of handlers connecting with their dogs.

Sarah Garrison leans against the run door, her prosthetic leg braced in the shavings as she strokes Tank’s broad head, the ninety-pound mastiff pressing his flank flush against her thigh. Near run three, Griff Reed stands rigid while Chief leans heavily against his knee, the black Lab providing a grounding anchor for the former Navy Seabee. Brody Gavin's restless hands check Babe's harness three times, his hypervigilant focus mirrored in the retriever's twitching ears, while Danny Montoya counts his steps down the aisle, Buddy matching his stride pace for pace.

By eight-fifteen, Jason gathers all six of us in the center of the paddock.

"Today is baseline evaluation." Jason stands with his hands tucked into his work vest, Barnaby silent at his heel. "First half of the morning is heel-and-halt along the perimeter fence. I want to see how your dogs handle distraction, line of sight, and your voice when the wind picks up. Spread out, thirty feet between leads, and keep your focus on your animal."

The wind off the peak is a steady whistle, dropping snow in granular sweeps across the gravel as we take our positions. Sarah Garrison moves toward the west rail with Tank, her left leg planted stiffly in the slush. Griff Reed takes the north fence with Chief, the black Lab mix watching the treeline with quiet interest.

I take the center of the paddock with Juno.

The Malinois doesn't look at me. Her sable face is tipped toward the north ridge, her ears swiveling to track a hawk that has settled in the spruce trees. Her lead is short, looped twice around my hand. When I move my fingers, she doesn't budge. She's a question mark of muscle, her skin twitching with every shift of the wind.

"Easy, Juno." My voice drops into the calibrated tone I used to steady panicked trauma casualties over the Atlantic. "Easy... I've got you."

Juno doesn't blink. She throws her weight against the collar, her eyes scanning the paddock rail, then the lodge porch, then the clouds. She's looking for threats.