Нора Робертс - The Search

“Oh.” Devin scrubbed at his face, drew in a couple steadying breaths. “Thank you, Peck. Thank you.” He crouched, offered his hand.

Peck smiled as dogs do and placed his paw in Devin’s hand.

“Can I... can I hug him?”

“He’d love it.”

On a deep, shuddering sigh, Devin hugged Peck’s neck, pressed his face to the fur. Over the man’s shoulder, Peck sent Fiona a twinkling look.

Wasn’t that fun? he seemed to say. Can we do it again?

After debriefing, Fiona drove home while Peck sprawled in the back for a quick power nap. He’d earned it, she thought, just as she’d earned the burger she was going to make herself and devour while she transcribed the log onto her computer.

She needed to give Sylvia a call, tell her stepmother they’d found the kid and she wouldn’t need her to fill in for the afternoon classes after all.

Of course, now that the hard work was done, Fiona thought, the rain decided to back off. Already she could see a few breaks of blue in the gray.

Hot coffee, she decided, hot shower, lunch and paperwork, and with some luck she’d have dry weather for the afternoon’s schedule.

As she drove out of the park, she caught the faint glimmer of a rainbow over the rain-churned sound. A good sign, she decided—maybe even a portent of things to come. A few years before, her life had been like the rain—dull and gray and dreary. The island had been her break in the clouds, and her decision to settle there her chance for rainbows.

“Got what I need now,” she murmured. “And if there’s more, well, we’ll just see.”

She turned off the snaking road onto her bumpy drive. Recognizing the change in motion, Peck gave a snort and scrambled up to sit. His tail thumped the seat as they rattled over the narrow bridge spanning her skinny, bubbling stream. When the house came into view, the tail picked up in rhythm and he gave a happy two-note bark.

Her doll-sized cabin, shingled in cedar, generous with windows, grew out of her pretty chunk of forest and field. The yard sprawled and sloped, and held what she thought of as training zones. The sliding boards, teeter-totters, ladders and platforms, tunnels and pass-throughs ranged with benches, tire swings and ramps gave most the impression of a woodsy play area for kids.

Not that far off, Fiona thought. The kids just had four legs.

The other two of her three kids stood on the covered front porch, tails wagging, feet dancing. One of the best things about dogs, to Fiona’s mind, was their absolute joy in welcoming you home, whether you’d been gone for five minutes or five days. There lay unconditional and boundless love.

She parked, and her car was immediately surrounded by canine delight while, inside, Peck wiggled in anticipation of reunion with his best pals.

She stepped out to nuzzling snouts and wagging tails. “Hi, boys.” Ruffling fur, she angled to open the back door. Peck leaped out so the lovefest could begin.

There was sniffing, happy grumbling, body bumping, then the race and chase. While she retrieved her pack, the three dogs charged away, zipping in circles and zigzags before charging back to her.

Always ready to play, she mused as three pairs of eyes stared up at her with hopeful gleams.

“Soon,” she promised. “I need a shower, dry clothes, food. Let’s go in. What do you say, wanna go in?”

In answer, all three bulleted for the door.

Newman, a yellow Lab and the oldest, at six, and the most dignified, led the pack. But then Bogart, the black Lab and the baby, at three, had to stop long enough to grab up his rope.

Surely someone wanted to play tug.

They bounded in behind her, feet tapping on the wide-planked floor. Time, she thought with a glance at her watch. But not a lot of it.

She left her pack out as she had to replace the space blanket before she tucked it away. While the dogs rolled on the floor, she stirred up the fire she’d banked before leaving, added another log. She peeled off her wet jacket as she watched the flames catch.

Dogs on the floor, a fire in the hearth, she thought, made the room cozy. It tempted her to just curl up on the love seat and catch her own power nap.

No time, she reminded herself, and debated which she wanted more: dry clothes or food. After a struggle, she decided to be an adult and get dry first. Even as she turned for the stairs, all three dogs went on alert. Seconds later, she heard the rattle of her bridge.

“Who could that be?”

She walked to the window trailed by her pack.

The blue truck wasn’t familiar, and on an island the size of Orcas there weren’t many strangers. Tourist was her first thought, a wrong turn, a need for directions.

Resigned, she walked outside, gave her dogs the signal to hold on the porch.

She watched the man get out. Tall, a lot of dark hair, scarred boots, worn jeans on long legs. Good face, she decided, sharp planes, sharp angles blurred by the shadow of stubble that said he’d been too busy or too lazy to shave that morning. The good face held an expression of frustration or annoyance—maybe a combo of both—as he shoved a hand through the mass of hair.

Big hands, she noted, on the ends of long arms.

Like the boots, the leather jacket he wore had some years on it. But the truck looked new.

“Need some help?” she called out, and he stopped frowning at the training area to turn toward her.

“Fiona Bristow?” His voice had an edge to it, not anger so much as that annoyance she read on his face. Behind her Bogart gave a little whine.

“That’s right.”

“Dog trainer?”

“I am.” She stepped off the porch as he started toward her, watched his gaze skim over her three guardians. “What can I do for you?”

“Did you train those three?”

“I did.”

His eyes, tawny, like warm, deeply steeped tea, shifted back to her. “Then you’re hired.”

“Yay. For what?”

He pointed at her dogs. “Dog trainer. Name your price.”

“Okay. Let’s open the floor at a million dollars.”

“Will you take it in installments?”

That made her smile. “We can negotiate. Let’s start this way. Fiona Bristow,” she said, and offered her hand.

“Sorry. Simon Doyle.”

Working hands, she thought, as his—hard, calloused—took hers. Then the name clicked. “Sure, wood artist.”

“Mostly I build furniture.”

“Great stuff. I bought one of your bowls a few weeks ago. I can’t seem to resist a nice bowl. My stepmother carries your work in her shop. Island Arts.”

“Sylvia, yeah. She’s great.” He brushed off the compliment, the sale, the small talk. A man on a mission. “She’s the one who told me to come talk to you. So how much of the million do you need up front?”

“Where’s the dog?”

“In the truck.”

She looked past him, cocked her head. She saw the pup through the window now. A Lab-retriever mix, she judged—and currently very busy.

“Your dog’s eating your truck.”

“What?” He spun around. “Fuck!”

As he made the dash, Fiona signaled her newly alerted dogs to stay and sauntered after him. The best way to get a gauge on the man, the dog and their current dynamic was to watch how he handled the situation.

“For God’s sake.” He wrenched open the door. “Goddamn it, what’s wrong with you?”

The puppy, obviously unafraid, unrepentant, leaped into the man’s arms and slathered his face with eager kisses.

“Cut it out. Just stop !” He held the puppy out at arm’s length, where it wagged and wriggled and yipped in delight.

“I just bought this truck. He ate the headrest. How could he eat the headrest in under five minutes?”