Page 21 of Rescued By the Dog Trainer

"The wind's coming down from the pass." Danny gestures toward the yard. "It's freezing the locks on the trucks."

"Get your lines and bring the dogs out of the runs." I step into the aisle, raising my hand toward the kennels. "If they stand still on the concrete, their pads are going to freeze. Paddock drills are canceled today. We're working the main aisle."

They head down the kennel row, the sound of clipping snaps and tail-thumps echoing against the timber as they retrieve their dogs. Once they line up, the dogs spaced ten feet apart, I run them through the sequence: sits, stays, heel-turns in the narrow space of the cedar shavings.

Throughout the session, my eyes keep dragging back to the end of the row.

Maren stands with Juno. Her posture is rigid, her spine straight, but her right knee favors the left side when she turns. She holds the leather lead draped loose, her fingers relaxed against the hide just the way my hands showed her. Juno stays at her heel, her sable muzzle quiet, her amber eyes locked on Maren's shoulder.

Every time Maren turns, the canvas of her coat pulls tight across her back, showing the lean line of her shoulders. My eyes track her relentlessly: the dark braid brushing her wool collar, the subtle shift of her hips to protect her right knee, the sharp focus in her eyes as she guides Juno through the sequence.

Standing ten feet away, I still feel the lingering heat of her body from the back stall. The memory of her palm under mine stays locked in my knuckles. Her pulse jumped against my thumb before she yielded to my grip, her weight settling back against my chest until her breath warmed the cold air.

I track the movement of her throat when she looks up, and a hot pull tightens in my gut. I don't just want her holding a lead. I want to pull her into the tack room, strip away the heavy canvas layers, and feel her skin against mine. I want to run my thumbs down the line of her throat, press her back against the timber wall until she forgets about rank, and taste the pulse thrumming under her jaw.

My grip tightens on my lead, my knuckles turning white against the leather. Keeping my distance takes more discipline than any post I ever held downrange. Every instinct demands I reach for her. I hold my posture instead.

Nadia Vega catches me looking. Her dark eyes shift from me to Maren, a knowing smile touching her mouth.

At noon, the wind rattles the tin roof, carrying the smell of woodsmoke. We break for feed detail.

I walk to the feed room at the back of the barn, stoking the tack stove before I grab the tin scoop. The cedar partition walls are thin, the wood dry and shrunk from the winter drafts. Outside, in the wash area, the brass faucet squeaks open, the sound of running water echoing in the rafters.

"Jason, huh?" Nadia leans against the timber partition, her tone low. "I'd give anything for a man to look at me like that."

"Like what?" A water bucket clatters against the concrete under Maren's hand.

"Like he wants to devour you. The guy doesn't blink when you're in the room. He's tracking you like a shepherd on a hot scent."

"He's just doing his job."

"Right. Keep telling yourself that. But when a man looks at you like he's trying to figure out how to peel off your coat, it's not a job."

My hand locks on the tin scoop. I hold my breath, trapped behind the thin partition where any shifting boot will make the dry cedar boards creak. Stepping out now will expose that I've been standing here listening to every word. I stay frozen in place, my pulse thudding against my ribs while I wait for Maren's answer through the gaps in the timber.

"He doesn't look at me like he wants to devour me." The water shuts off with a sharp clang of the brass handle. "He looks at me like he's trying to figure out how to break me."

"Then don't let him." Nadia's boots shift on the concrete. "Show him what you're made of."

"I intend to." Maren's boots scrape against the cedar shavings as she walks back toward the runs.

Her words land like stones in the quiet feed room. I clench my jaw so hard the muscle jumps under my skin, my grip locked on the tin scoop until the metal groans.

I'm not trying to break her. I'm trying to strip away the rigid armor she uses to hide her pain, to give her something real to hold onto when the mountain gets cold. But hearing her admit she feels targeted, hearing the sharp defiance in her voice when she told Nadia she intends to prove herself, stabs deeper than I expect.

She thinks I'm testing her limits. She thinks I want to see her fold. She doesn't understand that her refusal to break is exactly what keeps my eyes locked on her.

I let out a slow breath through my teeth, listening as the sound of their boots fades down the barn aisle.

By five in the afternoon, the others have cleared out. The storm has settled back over the mountain, the dark coming down fast through the high rafters. Maren stays behind for evening lockup detail, her boots wet, her fingers red from cleaning the water buckets.

I stoke the tack room stove, watching the birch bark curl and blacken on the iron plate.

Assigning her extra detail was supposed to be a penalty for showing up late. But watching her move through the quiet aisle, I don't regret a single second of it. It gives me the one thing I've wanted since seven-thirty this morning: a quiet barn, the wind howling off the pass, and time alone with her.

Maren walks into the tack room, carrying Juno's lead. She sets her leather gloves on the wooden tack box, then pulls her phone from her vest pocket, placing it face-up on the pine lid while she unclips the brass snap.

"She's settled for the night." Maren slides the gate latch shut with a steel click.