Steve’s eyebrows went up. “Which would be great if Sandra hadn’t finished her run ten minutes ago.”
Busted. Noah scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the growth he’d neglected to trim this morning. Or yesterday. The last few days had blurred together in a haze of work and not thinking about Sabrina, which was like trying not to think about breathing when someone was holding your head underwater.
The harder you fought it, the more it consumed you.
“I’m good,” he said, though no one had asked. “Just distracted by that new water retrieval technique I want to try with Dancer later.”
Steve nodded, clearly not buying it but kind enough not to push. The man had seen enough shattered hearts in this line of work to know when to leave the broken pieces alone. The other handlers had started packing up, their dogs already loaded into various vehicles. The early morning training had been Noah’s idea, a desperate attempt to keep his mind and body moving at such a punishing pace that there’d be no room for the tsunami of emotions threatening to tear him apart from the inside.
So far, it wasn’t working. At all. So now he was exhaustedandheartbroken.
Dancer bumped his leg, a gentle reminder that at least one relationship in his life remained rock solid. The lab’s eyes held that quiet understanding that made him both man’s best friend and Noah’s emotional lifeline.
“Don’t you start,” Noah murmured, but scratched behind the lab’s ears anyway. “I’m not pining. I’m processing.”
The dog’s answering look could only be described as skeptical. That was the problem with having such an intuitive partner. Dancer could see straight through the lining Noah had constructed around the raw, bleeding heart he was pretending didn’t exist.
“All right, wrap it up!” Noah called to the remaining stragglers. “We’ll pick this up Thursday at the lake.”
He should feel proud. The new handlers were showing real progress, and the local SAR units would benefit from having more certified teams in the field. His program was working. His life was moving forward.
And if he kept telling himself that, maybe it would start to feel true.
The truth was, he’d like to be writing the article he’d started. The one about Annie Ross. But every time he sat down at his keyboard, nothing productive happened, that was for sure. And until he could figure out how to get through that quagmire of grief, nothing on the investigative reporting front would be in his future.
A sharp bark caught his attention—not Dancer’s familiar voice. His head snapped up, scanning the tree line at the edge of the training ground.
A chocolate lab burst from the underbrush, coat matted with dirt, sides heaving. The moment his brain processed it was Ripley, a cavity formed in his chest, as if all his blood had suddenly decided to pool in his feet.
Something was very, very wrong.
The dog sprinted straight for him, barking frantically. No leash. No Sabrina.
“Ripley!” Noah dropped to one knee as the lab skidded to a halt in front of him, whining and pawing at his legs. “Where’s Sabrina?”
The lab barked again, turning in circles before darting a few feet away, then back to him. Classic alert behavior. She was trying to lead him somewhere.
His blood turned to ice in his veins as his mind painted a thousand possible scenarios, each worse than the last. If Ripley was here alone, clearly on a mission, something had happened to Sabrina. Something bad enough that she’d sent her dog for help instead of calling on the radio.
Or maybe she couldn’t call.
That thought knocked the air from his lungs like a sucker punch, the image of Sabrina alone and hurt flooding his system with adrenaline so potent it nearly made him dizzy. He’d seen what terrible things could happen to people alone in those canyons. Had recovered the broken bodies left behind when nature reminded humans who was really in charge.
That wasnothapping to Sabrina. He was not losing her to the wilderness.
“Steve!” Noah’s voice cracked like a whip. “Get emergency services on standby. Possible SAR operation. Full team.”
He was already moving toward his truck, Dancer at his heel and Ripley circling, her anxiety like a living thing between them, a third creature formed of pure fear. “Where is she, girl? Show me.”
Ripley barked and took off toward the main road, then circled back, clearly distressed. Noah’s mind raced—Ripley had come from the southeast, the direction of Peavine Canyon. The same canyon where they’d found Annie Ross. The same place Sabrina patrolled most frequently.
“I know where she is,” he said, yanking open the truck door. Dancer leaped into the back seat, and after a moment’s hesitation, Ripley jumped in beside him. “Good girl. Take me to her.”
The drive was a blur, tension coiling tighter with each passing minute. Ripley grew more frantic the closer they got to Peavine, practically throwing herself against the window.
“We’re going to find her,” he promised the anxious dog, whose brown eyes—so like Sabrina’s that it physically hurt to look at them—seemed to understand every word.
Noah finally skidded sideways into the same turnout he’d parked in the first time he’d met Sabrina. The moment Noah rounded the truck, Ripley burst through the door he’d barely opened, nose to the ground, already tracking. This was what she’d been trained for—to find what was lost, to lead the way when all other signs failed.
