Alaskan Hero

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.