“You’re good with them.”
I glanced up. Roarke was watching me, another kennel balanced easily in his arms. His forearms flexed as he shifted his grip, muscle moving beneath the worn flannel. I looked back at the dog before he caught me staring.
“I grew up with dogs,” I said. “And my roommate—Peyton, the one I’m looking for—she adopted a beagle mix when we moved in together. Benny.” My throat tightened before I could stop it. “He passed a few months ago. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
Just two words. But he said them plainly, without softening or rushing through them. It made them land.
“Thanks.” I rose slowly, careful not to spook the Shepherd. “That’s probably why I wanted to help tonight. Being around dogs again feels…good. Even the scared ones.”
Especially the scared ones. There was something grounding about being useful when someone—or some dog—was at their worst.
Roarke carried the kennel past me, saying nothing more. The Shepherd watched him go, then looked back at me, ears twitching like he was waiting for instructions.
“Your turn, buddy.” I clipped the lead to his collar. “Let’s get you somewhere warm.”
He walked beside me willingly, though he stuck close to my legs. By the time I handed him off to Rylie, my chest ached with the urge to take him home myself.
“Last one,” Roarke said when I stepped back outside.
We loaded the final kennel together—a bull terrier mix who’d managed to sleep through most of the chaos. When the tailgate finally closed with a solid thunk, the truck bed was empty.
The dogs were safe.
Roarke turned to face me, and in the low spill of light from the trailer, I finally got a proper look at him. He was big. That had been obvious from the start. But up close, the details stood out—the dark beard shadowing his jaw, the broad span of his shoulders beneath worn flannel, the thick calluses on his hands that spoke of years of physical work. His eyes were a pale gray-blue, steady and unreadable, like they missed very little.
Mountain man, my brain offered unhelpfully. He looked like he’d stepped right out of one of the romance novels my mom devoured.
“Ready to find your friend?” he asked.
“Yes. God, yes. Thank you again for doing this.”
“Told you I would.”
He headed toward the driver’s side of the truck, and I hurried to move my SUV. Minutes later, I was following his taillights up a narrow, winding road toward the Wildwood Valley Roadhouse.
The bar looked exactly like I’d imagined—wooden exterior, glowing neon beer signs, a parking lot packed with pickup trucks. Roarke’s fit right in as he pulled into a space near the entrance.
I parked beside him and checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. Disaster. My hair was windblown and frizzy, mascara smudged beneath one eye. I looked like someone who’d cried earlier—which I had, when I’d briefly convinced myself Peyton was dead in a ditch somewhere.
Roarke waited by the door, holding it open when I joined him. He didn’t comment, just gestured me inside.
The air was warm and smelled like fried food and woodsmoke. A long bar lined one wall, tables scattered through the rest of the room. It wasn’t crowded—maybe a dozen people total—but every head turned when we walked in.
I felt instantly out of place. And keenly aware that I’d arrived with a local.
“Roarke.” The bartender—a woman with calm eyes and an observant expression—lifted a hand in greeting. “Didn’t expect to see you tonight. Thought you were running transport.”
“Just finished.” He moved toward the bar, and I followed. “Quick question, Elsa. A woman named Peyton was running the volunteer stuff over the weekend. You know where she’s staying?”
Elsa’s brows lifted. “Peyton? Yeah. Pretty sure she’s up at Warrick’s place.”
“Warrick?” I echoed before I could stop myself. “Who’s Warrick?”
Her gaze shifted to me, sharp and assessing. “Warrick Hale. Owns a good chunk of land around here. Wasn’t thrilled aboutthe rescue at first.” A knowing smile crept across her face. “Guess he changed his mind.”
Roarke made a sound that might have been a laugh.
