Читать книгу Alaskan Hero - Teri Wilson - Страница 14

Chapter Four

“Aspen and Sherlock are all caught up on the local happenings. Now what?” Anya handed the newspaper to Brock. Thankfully, he’d asked her to keep an eye on the clock this go-round. Just as she suspected, thirty minutes was enough time to cover most everything that went on in Aurora.

It was also apparently enough time for Brock to turn yesterday’s smooth sphere of wood into something vaguely resembling a dog.

“Oh, wow.” She plucked the tiny figure off the workbench, where it sat amid a small pile of wood shavings. “This is really great. Where did you learn how to do this?”

“My grandfather taught me years ago. It kind of stuck with me.” He frowned slightly as he watched her handle the little wooden dog, as if he himself was surprised at what he’d accomplished while she read to the pups.

Anya was surprised herself—surprised he’d actually answered her question. He was a man of few words, after all. She’d finally broken down and asked him about the puppies’ names this time, too, because he’d never mentioned them during her first “lesson.”

What didn’t surprise her, however, was the pair of antlers protruding from the sides of Brock’s baseball cap. They were soft and squishy, crafted of brown felt and ridiculously oversized. The get-up wasn’t quite as elaborate as his bear suit, but it made a statement nonetheless.

She ducked as he turned his head. “Watch it. You almost poked my eye out with one of your antlers just now.”

“Sorry,” he said to her forehead.

Anya tried not to think about the fact that he looked so ridiculous in the hat that he bordered on adorable. “So what next?”

“I’d like you to feed them.” He nodded toward a large plastic bin situated neatly beneath the workbench. “The kibble is in there. They get about two handfuls each.”

She reached down and lifted the lid of the bin. “Where are their bowls?”

He shook his antlered head. “No bowls.”

“What do you mean no bowls?” Anya frowned at the tiny pieces of kibble. “You want me to feed them by hand?”

“Piece by piece,” Brock called over his shoulder as he left the training room to do who knows what in the house. Perhaps he was going to tackle those untouched moving boxes that still littered his living room. “See? You’re learning already.”

Perhaps.

Anya was pretty sure she was on her way to figuring out the method to his madness, as Clementine had put it. After she’d gotten home from church the night before, she’d sat down right next to Dolce’s hiding spot. If Brock wasn’t going to tell her what she should do, she’d just have to emulate what she did at training class.

She hadn’t had it in her to read the paper again, so she’d worked on the hat she was knitting instead. After a quarter of an hour, Dolce’s anxious whimpering had quieted down. By the time Anya had knitted the final row—nearly two hours after she’d gotten home—she was rewarded with the sight of Dolce’s little black nose poking out from beneath the edge of the duvet. It was a first. Most would consider it a small victory at best, but Anya had been delighted.

Now, as Aspen’s soft muzzle tickled the palm of Anya’s hand in search of more food, she wondered how on Earth she could manage to hand-feed Dolce. She’d probably have to stick her hand under the bed. And turn the lights off. It sounded complicated. But do-able. Definitely do-able.

Brock strolled back in just as the dogs finished the last of their kibble. “How’s it going over there?”

“All finished.” Anya rose and climbed out of the pen. “For the record, I know what you’re doing.”

This seemed to get his attention. He angled his head toward her, antlers and all, and looked her square in the eyes. Anya had to remind herself to breathe. It was ridiculous. Men in silly hats shouldn’t be able to make women breathless.

“And what is that?” he asked.

“You’re Mr. Miyagi-ing me.” She wiggled her nose and realized she smelled like dog food.

“Mr. Who?”

“Mr. Miyagi,” she repeated. “You know—wax on, wax off.”

She waved her hands in the universal wax-on, wax-off gesture. At least, she thought it was universal. The look on Brock’s face told her otherwise.

He crossed his arms. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Wax on, wax off.” She circled her hands in the air again. “From The Karate Kid movie.”

He narrowed his gaze at her. “The one from the eighties, or the one with Will Smith’s kid?”

“The one from the eighties, of course.” She rolled her eyes. “Please. You don’t remake perfection.”

He laughed. Anya was fairly certain she’d never heard him laugh before. Surely she would have remembered the way the deep, rumbling sound of it seemed to tickle her insides.

She straightened. “You know the story of the Karate Kid, right? The old man uses household chores to teach his young protégé karate skills and valuable life lessons.”

“Am I to assume that I’m the old man in this scenario?”

“Of course.” Anya nodded as if the answer was obvious. As if Brock resembled an old man in any way, which he most definitely did not.

He took a step closer to her. “And you’re the young, cute protégé, I take it?”

She’d never said cute. She was sure of it. “Y-yes.”

“And what about the bear costume? And the hat?” He gestured toward his head. “How do they come into the picture?”

“Um...” Anya opened her mouth and promptly closed it. She was still stuck on the matter of Brock’s choice of attire.

“They’re socialization tools.”

“Socialization tools,” Anya repeated.

He gestured toward Sherlock and Aspen. “Search and rescue dogs see all sorts of things on the mountain. They need to be unflappable, prepared for anything.”

Like men dressed as bears? Right. “Yeah, I doubt that.”

Brock lifted a brow. Clearly the genius wasn’t accustomed to being questioned. “Excuse me? You doubt that?”

“I don’t think it has anything to do with the dogs. I think you just enjoy dressing this way.” She was only half-joking.

Brock’s lips curved into a self-deprecating smirk. “Is that so?”

“Oh, yes.” She nodded and considered how absolutely perfect he would look in a Viking hat. Perhaps she could find one somewhere.

“I’m curious.” His eyes danced with amusement. “How did you figure all this out? Did you learn it on Google earlier?”

Was he ever going to let that go?

“I did not Google you.” Anya planted her hands on her hips. Jesus, forgive me for lying.

“We both know you did.” The corner of his mouth lifted into a knowing grin.

The ground didn’t open her up and swallow her whole as she wished it would, so she cleared her throat and made an attempt at sounding business-like. “So Mr. Miyagi, does this conclude our lesson? Should I come back at the same time tomorrow?”

He paused and appeared to think it over. “I don’t think so. No.”

“No?” she asked, hating the note of distress in her voice.

“No,” he said again. “For our next lesson I’d like to go on a field trip.”

“A field trip?” Why was she repeating everything he said?

“Yes.” He nodded. “If you’re up for it.”

“Where?” Knowing Brock, it could be anywhere. She wanted to be at least somewhat prepared for whatever he had in store.

Brock leaned against the workbench and crossed his feet at the ankles. “How would Mr. Miyagi answer that question?”

Anya narrowed her gaze. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

He smirked, clearly satisfied with himself. “Nope.”

Impossible. The man was impossible.

* * *

Brock stomped his feet to loosen the snow from his boots as he stepped inside the ski patrol headquarters the next morning. The snow had finally stopped falling, at least for the time being. But it still clung to the ground—and everything else in Alaska, it seemed—as it would until the summer sun came and finally melted it all away. According to his research, Aurora was under snowfall nine months out of the year.

That meant nine months of danger of a slide. Slopes with an underlayer of old snow made things even worse. Aurora had snow in abundance. Weak snow. New snow. All kinds of snow.

“Good morning. Who’s your friend?” Cole’s eyebrows rose as he looked up from the book he was reading and took in the sight of Brock.

Brock loosened his arms from his backpack and let it slide gently to the floor. Aspen’s copper-colored head poked out from the top. He let out a little woof, indicating he was more than ready to be let loose.

“Morning. This is Aspen. He’s one of the pups in training I told you about.” Brock unzipped the backpack, and Aspen wiggled his way out.

“Why are you carrying him around like that? He looks more than capable of tromping through the snow.” Cole whistled for the dog and gave him a good scratch behind the ears. Aspen yelped with glee.

The two of them were bonding already. Good. “Sometimes the dogs need to be carried on the mountain—when loading onto a ski lift or riding a snow machine, for instance. I get in practice for those skills when I can.”

“I see.” Cole nodded and closed the book he’d been reading. Small. Black leather. Brock recognized it at once as a Bible. “He’s a good size for that, I suppose.”

“That’s one of the reasons I use this breed—the Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever. They’re trainable and sturdy, yet compact enough to make convenient search dogs.” Brock hung his backpack on a hook by the door to the cabin and sank into a chair at the table opposite Cole.

“How long have you had him?”

“Since he was eight weeks old. His littermate too—Sherlock. He’s not quite ready to start training up here.” But he would be soon, if the way he was responding to Anya was any indication. “I have a breeder in Washington who I work with to select pups that look like good candidates for search and rescue dogs.”

“That must be hard.” With Aspen flopped belly-up at his feet, Cole poured Brock a cup of coffee from the box in the center of the table and slid it toward him.

As soon as he took the first sip, Brock knew it was from Anya’s coffee bar. It was far too good to come from anywhere else. He was beginning to understand why the Northern Lights Inn was such a draw. “What’s hard?”

Cole shrugged and nudged Aspen with his foot. “Training the dogs as pups and then leaving them behind.”

“I suppose.” Brock frowned. He’d never thought of it as leaving the dogs behind. Sure, it was hard sometimes. He spent almost every waking hour with the pups. Forming attachments was unavoidable. But it was his job, what he did best—train the search dogs and put them to work in the places where they were most needed.

“Well, don’t you worry. We’ll take great care of this little fella.” Cole bent and rubbed Aspen’s belly, sending the pup into throes of delight. “And the other one too.”

“Sherlock,” Brock said absently, still slightly thrown by the notion of leaving the dogs behind. He hoped the Tollers didn’t think of it that way. “The other one’s name is Sherlock.”

He took another sip of his coffee. Maybe a healthy dose of caffeine would clear his head. The last thing he needed was to go soft. It wasn’t as if he were abandoning the dogs. He was putting them to work. They were helping people. He was helping people.

Cole rose from his chair and shrugged into his parka. “Oh, by the way, I signed you up for the Reindeer Run.”

The sudden change of subject threw Brock for a moment. Reindeer Run? Then he remembered Anya’s cute little smirk. You should do it. Actually now that I think about it, the Reindeer Run is right up your alley.

“You signed me up?” he asked, still trying the shake the image of that wry smile. Of those eyes...

“Yep. The ski patrol enters the race every year as a team. It’ll be fun.” Cole zipped up his jacket as he reached for the door. “I’m headed out to gas up the snow machine. We’ll meet back here in an hour or so for training, right?”

“Right.” Brock nodded.

Aspen sat up and swiveled his head back and forth between the two of them as if asking whether or not he should follow Cole.

“You’re with me, Aspen,” Brock said.

For now anyway.

The dog scuttled over to him and rested his chin on Brock’s knee. Cole shut the door behind him, and Brock sighed.

He laid his hand on Aspen’s head. “You get it, right? This is your home now.”

Aspen swiped Brock’s hand with his tongue.

“Good boy.” Brock ran the pad of his thumb over the dog’s head in lazy circles.

Of course the dog understood. And if he didn’t, he would. He was a dog, after all. He’d bond with whoever spent time with him and fed him every day. By this time next year, Brock would be a distant memory to both Aspen and Sherlock. It was straightforward with animals. At least that’s what Brock always told himself, making it all the more easy for him to walk away.

With people, however, things were rarely so simple. Which was precisely why Brock didn’t let himself get close—to anyone. It was also why he didn’t like the sound of the Reindeer Run.

He wasn’t here to put down roots, so he saw no point in getting involved in community events. And a team event? It sounded even more problematic. The guys on the ski patrol didn’t need to start thinking of him as part of their team. But Cole had already signed him up, so he didn’t really have a choice in the matter.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. What could be the harm in running five kilometers—or whatever the Reindeer Run involved—with the guys? It couldn’t be any more dangerous than spending every evening with Anya.

Anya.

Something moved in Brock’s chest at the thought of her. Something warm, intangible and most definitely not invited.

Convinced he was imagining things, he scolded himself. The thing with Anya was nothing. He was helping her out, that’s all. And, likewise, she was helping him with the pups. Wax on, wax off, just like she’d said. He wasn’t doing anything wrong.

His throat suddenly grew tight, and his gaze was drawn to Cole’s Bible sitting in the center of the table.

In Brock’s experience, it wasn’t unusual to find a Bible in a ski patrol headquarters. When the business at hand involved saving people’s lives, faith in a higher power never hurt. And Brock had always been a believer himself. It had just been a while since he’d picked up the good book. A long while.

He reached for the Bible. The sheer weight of it felt comforting in his hands. The edges of the supple, leather cover were tattered and worn from what looked like years of use. Brock’s own Bible looked a fair bit newer and was packed up in one of the boxes back at the house. At least he thought it was. The boxes followed him from one place to the next, but sometimes he didn’t even bother to unpack them. What was the point?

He flipped the book open and was relieved when his fingers automatically found the page and verse he was searching for—Luke 19:10.

For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost.

It was the verse he’d based his life on.

Brock certainly didn’t have a savior complex. He knew all too well he was a man, full of more than his share of flaws. He’d never felt comfortable with the label hero no matter how many times it was applied to him.

But he’d always considered what he did to be a calling—finding those who’d been swallowed up by the snow, and teaching others to do the same. His parents, particularly his mother, worried over him and his obsession, as they called it. Was it an obsession? Maybe. Brock had devoted his life to it, to the exclusion of everything else.

And everyone else.

It demanded everything from him, and he was freely willing to give it. The thought of sharing his life with someone, of loving someone, only filled him with dread. Without warning, people vanished. Even loved ones. He knew that only too well.

But that was okay because without his calling, the disappearance of his brother would have been for nothing. And that would have been unacceptable. At least he’d made something meaningful out of all that pain.

For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost.

He was doing God’s work. No one would be hurt by it. Not him, not Anya and certainly not the dogs.

At least that’s what he told himself as he closed the Bible and pushed it away, out of arm’s reach.