Нора Робертс - The Search

“You see that?” With water dripping from his face, Earl looked over at Fiona. “He did it, first time out.”

“He did great.”

And so did you, she thought.

Fiona routinely tried to schedule an hour between classes, knowing that a good chunk of that would be taken up by handlers who wanted to talk, ask for advice, get her input on the day’s session.

With what she had left, she might be able to squeeze in a quick lunch, play with her own dogs, return any calls that came in during a session.

Since she had forty minutes to herself when the last car bumped over her bridge, she tossed balls, played tug, before dashing inside to grab a couple handfuls of Cheez-Its, then snagged an apple so she didn’t feel guilty.

She ate while she checked and answered voice and e-mail, made a few notes for the blog she updated two or three times a week.

The blog, she knew, led people to her website—or vice versa. And that led some of them to her school.

She left herself enough time to empty the pool and go over her lesson plan for the next group. Even as she started to set up, someone drove over her bridge.

So much for quiet time, she thought, then frowned as, for the second time in two days, an unfamiliar vehicle rolled down her drive.

She lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the sun and recognized Rosie and Devin Cauldwell. When the car made the slight turn, she caught a glimpse of Hugh in his car seat in the back.

“Okay, boys, best behavior. Greet.”

As the car parked, all three dogs lined up beside it and sat.

Devin got out, dog-side. “Hey, Peck. Hey.” When Peck lifted his paw, Devin grinned, then bent over to shake. “Good to see you again.”

“Newman,” Fiona said as Devin walked down the line, accepting paws. “And Bogart.”

“Guess you’re a fan of classic movies.” He held out a hand to Fiona. “I hope it’s okay that we came by.”

“Sure it is.” She turned toward Hugh, who had his hand in his mother’s and looked none the worse for wear in a red hoodie and jeans. “Hi, Hugh. Do you want to say hi to Peck and his pals?”

“Doggies!” Hugh scrambled over to throw his arms around Peck. “Doggie found me. I got lost.”

She introduced the boy to the other dogs, who were all treated to a hug.

“I never even thanked you yesterday,” Rosie began.

“You were a little preoccupied.”

“I—Is that all right?” she asked when the dogs flopped down and Hugh began crawling over them, giggling, tugging on ears.

“They’re in heaven. They love kids.”

“We’ve talked about maybe getting a dog. We thought we’d wait another year or two, but now...” Rosie watched Hugh, and smiled. “Any recommendations on breeds for an active three-year-old?”

“Obviously I’ve got a soft spot for Labs. They’re great with kids, with families, but they want a lot of interaction. And they need room.”

“We have a yard, and a park not far from the house. The way I feel right now? If there’s another Peck out there, I want him. Sorry,” Rosie added when her eyes watered up. “I haven’t quite settled down yet. Ms. Bristow—”

“Fiona.”

“Fiona.” Rosie reached over to clasp both Fiona’s hands. “There aren’t words. There just aren’t. There’s no payment, no gesture. There’s nothing we can do that comes close to what you did for us.”

“Hugh’s playing with my dogs and laughing. That’s the payment. That’s why we do this.”

Devin laid an arm over his wife’s shoulders. “We wrote a letter to the organization—the Search and Rescue organization—about your unit, and we’re mailing it today with a donation. It’s something.”

“It’s a lot. It’s appreciated.”

“When we get that puppy, we’ll sign up for your classes,” Rosie added.

“I wouldn’t want anyone else to help us train him. Deputy Englewood told us you run an obedience school and train search dogs.”

“And we’re probably holding you up. But before we go... Hugh, don’t you have something for Ms. Bristow and Peck? Actually, they said you had the three dogs,” Devin continued as Rosie walked Hugh back to the car. “So we got one for each of them.”

Hugh came back with his arms loaded with three huge rawhide bones. He dumped them in front of the dogs.

“Don’t want?” he said when the dogs simply sat.

“They won’t take them until you tell them they can.” Fiona moved a bone in front of each dog.

“Get the bone! Get the bone!” Hugh shouted.

Fiona added hand signals so the dogs executed a happy leap, then a stylish bow that had Hugh giggling. “They said thank you very much.”

“Hugh picked these out for you.” Rosie offered a bouquet of red tulips. “He thought they looked like lollipops.”

“They really do, and they’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“I drew a picture.” Hugh took the drawing from his mother. “I drew me and Peck and you.”

“Wow.” Fiona admired the colorful squiggles, circles and lines. “It’s great.”

“This is Peck. He’s a big dog. And this is Fee, and this is me. I got to ride on Fee’s back, and that’s Wubby. He got to ride, too. Mommy and me writed the names.”

“It’s a terrific picture.”

“You can put it on your frigedator.”

“I will. Thanks, Hugh.” She hugged him, breathed in the scent of little boy—wild, innocent and free.

After she waved them off, Fiona went inside to fix the drawing to the front of her fridge, to arrange the lollipop tulips in a bold blue vase.

And was grateful to have a few minutes to compose herself before her first students arrived for the next class.

Man’s best friend, my ass.

After a furious chase followed by a pitched battle, Simon managed to pry the mallet out of the death grip of Jaws’s teeth.

Holding the now slimed and mangled tool while the puppy bounced like a furry spring, Simon imagined giving the dog just one good whack on his bone head. Not that he would, however tempting, but imagining it wasn’t a crime.

He pictured chirping cartoon birds circling the pup’s head, and little X’s in his eyes.

“If only,” he muttered.

He set the tool out of reach on the workbench, then looked around—again—at the scatter of toys and bones on the floor of his shop.

“Why are these no good? Why is that?” He picked up a Jaws-sized rope, offered it. “There, go destroy that.”

Seconds later, as Simon wiped off the abused mallet, the dog dropped the rope on his boot, then sat, tail thumping, head cocked, eyes bright with fun.

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” he demanded. “I don’t have time to play every five damn minutes. One of us has to make a living.”

Simon turned back to the standing wine cabinet—a thing of beauty, if he did say so himself—of wild cherry and ebony. He used wood glue to affix the last of the trim while the dog attacked his bootlaces. Struggling to focus on the work, Simon shook the dog off, picked up a clamp. Shook, glued, shook, clamped.

Jaws’s growls and happy yips mixed with the U2 he’d chosen as shop music for the morning.

He ran his fingers over the smooth, silky wood, nodded.

When he walked over to check the seams on a pair of rockers, he dragged the dog with him through the sawdust.

He supposed Jaws had conned him into playing after all.

He worked for nearly two hours, alternately dragging the dog, chasing him down, ordering himself to stop and walk the dog out to what he’d dubbed Shitville.

The break wasn’t so bad, he decided. It gave him a chance to clear his mind, to take in the mild air and the bright sun. He never tired of watching the way the light—sun or moon—played over the sound that formed his narrow link between the island’s saddlebags of land.