Teri Wilson - Alaskan Hero

“I see.” Cole nodded and closed the book he’d been reading. Small. Black leather. Brock recognized it at once as a Bible. “He’s a good size for that, I suppose.”

“That’s one of the reasons I use this breed—the Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever. They’re trainable and sturdy, yet compact enough to make convenient search dogs.” Brock hung his backpack on a hook by the door to the cabin and sank into a chair at the table opposite Cole.

“How long have you had him?”

“Since he was eight weeks old. His littermate too—Sherlock. He’s not quite ready to start training up here.” But he would be soon, if the way he was responding to Anya was any indication. “I have a breeder in Washington who I work with to select pups that look like good candidates for search and rescue dogs.”

“That must be hard.” With Aspen flopped belly-up at his feet, Cole poured Brock a cup of coffee from the box in the center of the table and slid it toward him.

As soon as he took the first sip, Brock knew it was from Anya’s coffee bar. It was far too good to come from anywhere else. He was beginning to understand why the Northern Lights Inn was such a draw. “What’s hard?”

Cole shrugged and nudged Aspen with his foot. “Training the dogs as pups and then leaving them behind.”

“I suppose.” Brock frowned. He’d never thought of it as leaving the dogs behind. Sure, it was hard sometimes. He spent almost every waking hour with the pups. Forming attachments was unavoidable. But it was his job, what he did best—train the search dogs and put them to work in the places where they were most needed.

“Well, don’t you worry. We’ll take great care of this little fella.” Cole bent and rubbed Aspen’s belly, sending the pup into throes of delight. “And the other one too.”

“Sherlock,” Brock said absently, still slightly thrown by the notion of leaving the dogs behind. He hoped the Tollers didn’t think of it that way. “The other one’s name is Sherlock.”

He took another sip of his coffee. Maybe a healthy dose of caffeine would clear his head. The last thing he needed was to go soft. It wasn’t as if he were abandoning the dogs. He was putting them to work. They were helping people. He was helping people.

Cole rose from his chair and shrugged into his parka. “Oh, by the way, I signed you up for the Reindeer Run.”

The sudden change of subject threw Brock for a moment. Reindeer Run? Then he remembered Anya’s cute little smirk. You should do it. Actually now that I think about it, the Reindeer Run is right up your alley.

“You signed me up?” he asked, still trying the shake the image of that wry smile. Of those eyes...

“Yep. The ski patrol enters the race every year as a team. It’ll be fun.” Cole zipped up his jacket as he reached for the door. “I’m headed out to gas up the snow machine. We’ll meet back here in an hour or so for training, right?”

“Right.” Brock nodded.

Aspen sat up and swiveled his head back and forth between the two of them as if asking whether or not he should follow Cole.

“You’re with me, Aspen,” Brock said.

For now anyway.

The dog scuttled over to him and rested his chin on Brock’s knee. Cole shut the door behind him, and Brock sighed.

He laid his hand on Aspen’s head. “You get it, right? This is your home now.”

Aspen swiped Brock’s hand with his tongue.

“Good boy.” Brock ran the pad of his thumb over the dog’s head in lazy circles.

Of course the dog understood. And if he didn’t, he would. He was a dog, after all. He’d bond with whoever spent time with him and fed him every day. By this time next year, Brock would be a distant memory to both Aspen and Sherlock. It was straightforward with animals. At least that’s what Brock always told himself, making it all the more easy for him to walk away.

With people, however, things were rarely so simple. Which was precisely why Brock didn’t let himself get close—to anyone. It was also why he didn’t like the sound of the Reindeer Run.

He wasn’t here to put down roots, so he saw no point in getting involved in community events. And a team event? It sounded even more problematic. The guys on the ski patrol didn’t need to start thinking of him as part of their team. But Cole had already signed him up, so he didn’t really have a choice in the matter.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. What could be the harm in running five kilometers—or whatever the Reindeer Run involved—with the guys? It couldn’t be any more dangerous than spending every evening with Anya.

Anya.

Something moved in Brock’s chest at the thought of her. Something warm, intangible and most definitely not invited.

Convinced he was imagining things, he scolded himself. The thing with Anya was nothing. He was helping her out, that’s all. And, likewise, she was helping him with the pups. Wax on, wax off, just like she’d said. He wasn’t doing anything wrong.

His throat suddenly grew tight, and his gaze was drawn to Cole’s Bible sitting in the center of the table.

In Brock’s experience, it wasn’t unusual to find a Bible in a ski patrol headquarters. When the business at hand involved saving people’s lives, faith in a higher power never hurt. And Brock had always been a believer himself. It had just been a while since he’d picked up the good book. A long while.

He reached for the Bible. The sheer weight of it felt comforting in his hands. The edges of the supple, leather cover were tattered and worn from what looked like years of use. Brock’s own Bible looked a fair bit newer and was packed up in one of the boxes back at the house. At least he thought it was. The boxes followed him from one place to the next, but sometimes he didn’t even bother to unpack them. What was the point?

He flipped the book open and was relieved when his fingers automatically found the page and verse he was searching for—Luke 19:10.

For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost.

It was the verse he’d based his life on.

Brock certainly didn’t have a savior complex. He knew all too well he was a man, full of more than his share of flaws. He’d never felt comfortable with the label hero no matter how many times it was applied to him.

But he’d always considered what he did to be a calling—finding those who’d been swallowed up by the snow, and teaching others to do the same. His parents, particularly his mother, worried over him and his obsession, as they called it. Was it an obsession? Maybe. Brock had devoted his life to it, to the exclusion of everything else.

And everyone else.

It demanded everything from him, and he was freely willing to give it. The thought of sharing his life with someone, of loving someone, only filled him with dread. Without warning, people vanished. Even loved ones. He knew that only too well.

But that was okay because without his calling, the disappearance of his brother would have been for nothing. And that would have been unacceptable. At least he’d made something meaningful out of all that pain.

For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost.

He was doing God’s work. No one would be hurt by it. Not him, not Anya and certainly not the dogs.

At least that’s what he told himself as he closed the Bible and pushed it away, out of arm’s reach.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.