Page 6 of Rescued By the Dog Trainer

Her guard is up, but she's turned it into a stance. Beside me, Barnaby gives one low thump of his tail, his dark eyes tracking her every move.

"Fifteen minutes late, Major." I stop three feet in front of her, holding the wooden clipboard at my side. "My schedule starts at eight sharp."

Behind her, the five on-time veterans watch in tense silence from the rail.

Maren stands four feet apart from the rest, holding the welcome folder against her hip in one gloved hand. Her winter-blue eyes are clear and sharp, assessing me with the scrutiny of an officer used to taking command of a room.

"The roads were frozen." Her chin stays level, her gaze steady as she stands square in the slush with her free hand shoved deep into her coat pocket, refusing to yield an inch of ground.

I register the tension in her frame—the slight flare of her nostrils, the way her gloved fingers tighten on the cardboard folder. She watches my boots, then my hands, then Barnaby, assessing me the way she'd read a senior NCO testing her authority.

I don't smile.

"Sixty days." I step back so my voice carries across all six of them. "That's what you have on this mountain. Eight weeks, seven days a week, zero excuses. You aren't here to be coddled, and you aren't here for a vacation. You're here to build a working partnership with an animal that will depend on you for the rest of its life."

"Seven days a week?" Danny Montoya shuffles his boots in the slush, his hands deep in his coat pockets. "No weekends off?"

"There are no days off with a service dog." I lock eyes with him, letting my words settle over the yard. "A working dog isn't a piece of gear you store in an armory on Friday afternoon. They are your companion twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. If you can't commit to seven days now, turn around and hand your folder back."

Montoya snaps his jaw shut, pulling his shoulders tight.

"The first rule of this program is silence." I lift my left hand, keeping my thumb tucked and my fingers flat. "We don't use voice commands at first. Dogs don't care about your military rank. They don't care about your medals or your trauma. They read your posture, your weight, and the line of your shoulders. If you're tight, they're tight. If you're running, they're running."

"And if we aren't?" Sarah Garrison looks toward the Malinois run.

"Then they settle." I turn my gaze toward Maren. She isn't looking at the Malinois run. She's watching my hand, reading the flat-palm signal. "We assign these dogs by weight, stride, and temperament. Sarah, you've got Tank. Run four."

Sarah nods once, the clack of her prosthetic loud as she turns toward the runs. Tank is a mastiff mix, ninety pounds of steady patience. He doesn't bark. He just watches her with his head down, his tail giving one heavy wag.

"Gavin, you've got Babe. Run six."

Gavin moves, his fingers still twitching. Babe is a golden retriever, solid, three years old, the kind of dog that doesn't mind when a hand shakes.

"Reed, Chief. Run two."

Griff moves toward the black Lab mix, his silent, heavy stride matching the Lab's easy wag.

"Vega, Zip. Run five."

Nadia walks toward the Border Collie mix. Zip is scanning, her tail tucked, her ears swiveled toward Nadia's boots.

"Montoya, Buddy. Run three."

Danny looks at the young shepherd mix. Buddy is whining, his front feet on the wire, his tail a blur. Danny's shoulders drop three inches when he reaches the gate.

The Major stays in the center of the yard.

She's the only one left. The snow is starting to stick to the shoulders of her canvas coat, the white flakes bright against the dark blue.

"Major." I meet her steady gaze.

She stands perfectly still, her shoulders squared against the wind. Her eyes settle on my face, winter blue and unblinking. She doesn't answer to the name. She doesn't correct me. She just waits.

"Juno." I point toward run seven.

The staff sheet on the clipboard says Buster. Buster is a three-year-old yellow Lab with the temperament of a wet towel. He's the animal the grant lawyers wanted her to have.

He's safe.