Page 8 of Rescued By the Dog Trainer

I step back, letting the distance open up, though my gaze stays on hers.

"Get your dog, Major."

THREE

Line

MAREN

The radiator in the blue room announces five in the morning with two metal bangs, followed by a dry rattle like gravel sliding down a mountain. I lie under the heavy quilt with my eyes open, tracking the sound.

The ache in my right knee is louder in the dark. A cold-weather throb that settles into the joint whenever the temperature drops below freezing.

Years on a flight deck taught me to categorize the world like a triage board.

Red is an engine failure or a compromised airway—an immediate crisis requiring instant intervention.

Green is cabin pressure and oxygen flow—baseline survival.

White is the background noise—the structural wear and tear, the torn cartilage, the ache of a body pushed past its limits.

I log a white constraint, adjust my stride, and keep moving. I don't let it stop me or the mission, and I never waste time feeling sorry for myself.

I roll out of the bed at six-thirty. The air in the guest house is cold enough to show my breath, a white puff that vanishes toward the ceiling. The manifest notebook sits in the nightstand drawer, locked under the Bible Mabel left there, the names of the two hundred and fourteen patients safe behind three pounds of cedar and scripture.

I don't touch it. It's safe where it is. Instead, I dress in layers: a thermal shirt, a grey wool sweater, and the dark blue canvas coat Eleanor gave me.

The mountain lane is black ice under gray dawn. The 4Runner takes the climb in second gear, tires threatening to lose traction every other second. The transmission whines against the grade, and I grit my teeth, praying the ice doesn't take me over the edge.

As it did before, the engine vibration comes up through the floorboards and into my boots, a mechanical hum that matches the steady throb in my right knee.

White noise.

It’s the constant that never goes away.

The mountain road shrinks to a narrow corridor, banked with six feet of packed snow that closes in like high walls. It feels like a taxiway leading straight to an active runway—no exit, no turnaround, forcing me forward toward whatever confrontation Jason Pike has planned for seven-thirty.

Assigning me early morning kibble prep isn't a penalty for being fifteen minutes late; it's a deliberate provocation. He carved out seven days of isolated duty before the rest of the group arrives. What he expects to accomplish by backing me into a corner remains to be seen.

By the time I clear the shelter gate, the green numbers on the dashboard clock read seven-thirty-five.

Five minutes late.

Again. Just my damn luck.

A knot tightens in my gut. In the military, being late twice in twenty-four hours is a habit; to a man like Jason Pike, it's an open declaration of war. I brace myself, squaring my shoulders against the seatback, taking one slow breath to steady my pulse.

Remember what he said about parking with a direct line to the exit; I park next to the shelter's battered flatbed instead. When the engine dies, the cold seeps through the cab to stiffen my joints. I pull on my gloves and step out into the frozen yard, ready for impact.

The supply room is a lean-to tacked onto the side of the main runs. The door is thick pine, the latch worn down to a bright silver crescent. When I push it open, the dry scent of kibble and cold pine hangs heavy in the air.

Jason is already there.

He stands by the bins, his back to the door. He occupies the center of the narrow aisle, his heavy canvas work vest making him look like a timber beam. Barnaby sits flush against his left heel, a silent shadow that doesn't tilt his head when I enter.

Jason doesn't turn. He just slides a metal scoop into a bin of dog food, the kibble dry and scraping against the tin.

"Seven-thirty." The gravel in his voice matches the scrape of the scoop. "In this barn, seven-thirty means you're ready to scoop. Not walking through the gate five minutes late."