Teri Wilson - Alaskan Hero

She ducked as he turned his head. “Watch it. You almost poked my eye out with one of your antlers just now.”

“Sorry,” he said to her forehead.

Anya tried not to think about the fact that he looked so ridiculous in the hat that he bordered on adorable. “So what next?”

“I’d like you to feed them.” He nodded toward a large plastic bin situated neatly beneath the workbench. “The kibble is in there. They get about two handfuls each.”

She reached down and lifted the lid of the bin. “Where are their bowls?”

He shook his antlered head. “No bowls.”

“What do you mean no bowls?” Anya frowned at the tiny pieces of kibble. “You want me to feed them by hand?”

“Piece by piece,” Brock called over his shoulder as he left the training room to do who knows what in the house. Perhaps he was going to tackle those untouched moving boxes that still littered his living room. “See? You’re learning already.”

Perhaps.

Anya was pretty sure she was on her way to figuring out the method to his madness, as Clementine had put it. After she’d gotten home from church the night before, she’d sat down right next to Dolce’s hiding spot. If Brock wasn’t going to tell her what she should do, she’d just have to emulate what she did at training class.

She hadn’t had it in her to read the paper again, so she’d worked on the hat she was knitting instead. After a quarter of an hour, Dolce’s anxious whimpering had quieted down. By the time Anya had knitted the final row—nearly two hours after she’d gotten home—she was rewarded with the sight of Dolce’s little black nose poking out from beneath the edge of the duvet. It was a first. Most would consider it a small victory at best, but Anya had been delighted.

Now, as Aspen’s soft muzzle tickled the palm of Anya’s hand in search of more food, she wondered how on Earth she could manage to hand-feed Dolce. She’d probably have to stick her hand under the bed. And turn the lights off. It sounded complicated. But do-able. Definitely do-able.

Brock strolled back in just as the dogs finished the last of their kibble. “How’s it going over there?”

“All finished.” Anya rose and climbed out of the pen. “For the record, I know what you’re doing.”

This seemed to get his attention. He angled his head toward her, antlers and all, and looked her square in the eyes. Anya had to remind herself to breathe. It was ridiculous. Men in silly hats shouldn’t be able to make women breathless.

“And what is that?” he asked.

“You’re Mr. Miyagi-ing me.” She wiggled her nose and realized she smelled like dog food.

“Mr. Who?”

“Mr. Miyagi,” she repeated. “You know—wax on, wax off.”

She waved her hands in the universal wax-on, wax-off gesture. At least, she thought it was universal. The look on Brock’s face told her otherwise.

He crossed his arms. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Wax on, wax off.” She circled her hands in the air again. “From The Karate Kid movie.”

He narrowed his gaze at her. “The one from the eighties, or the one with Will Smith’s kid?”

“The one from the eighties, of course.” She rolled her eyes. “Please. You don’t remake perfection.”

He laughed. Anya was fairly certain she’d never heard him laugh before. Surely she would have remembered the way the deep, rumbling sound of it seemed to tickle her insides.

She straightened. “You know the story of the Karate Kid, right? The old man uses household chores to teach his young protégé karate skills and valuable life lessons.”

“Am I to assume that I’m the old man in this scenario?”

“Of course.” Anya nodded as if the answer was obvious. As if Brock resembled an old man in any way, which he most definitely did not.

He took a step closer to her. “And you’re the young, cute protégé, I take it?”

She’d never said cute. She was sure of it. “Y-yes.”

“And what about the bear costume? And the hat?” He gestured toward his head. “How do they come into the picture?”

“Um...” Anya opened her mouth and promptly closed it. She was still stuck on the matter of Brock’s choice of attire.

“They’re socialization tools.”

“Socialization tools,” Anya repeated.

He gestured toward Sherlock and Aspen. “Search and rescue dogs see all sorts of things on the mountain. They need to be unflappable, prepared for anything.”

Like men dressed as bears? Right. “Yeah, I doubt that.”

Brock lifted a brow. Clearly the genius wasn’t accustomed to being questioned. “Excuse me? You doubt that?”

“I don’t think it has anything to do with the dogs. I think you just enjoy dressing this way.” She was only half-joking.

Brock’s lips curved into a self-deprecating smirk. “Is that so?”

“Oh, yes.” She nodded and considered how absolutely perfect he would look in a Viking hat. Perhaps she could find one somewhere.

“I’m curious.” His eyes danced with amusement. “How did you figure all this out? Did you learn it on Google earlier?”

Was he ever going to let that go?

“I did not Google you.” Anya planted her hands on her hips. Jesus, forgive me for lying.

“We both know you did.” The corner of his mouth lifted into a knowing grin.

The ground didn’t open her up and swallow her whole as she wished it would, so she cleared her throat and made an attempt at sounding business-like. “So Mr. Miyagi, does this conclude our lesson? Should I come back at the same time tomorrow?”

He paused and appeared to think it over. “I don’t think so. No.”

“No?” she asked, hating the note of distress in her voice.

“No,” he said again. “For our next lesson I’d like to go on a field trip.”

“A field trip?” Why was she repeating everything he said?

“Yes.” He nodded. “If you’re up for it.”

“Where?” Knowing Brock, it could be anywhere. She wanted to be at least somewhat prepared for whatever he had in store.

Brock leaned against the workbench and crossed his feet at the ankles. “How would Mr. Miyagi answer that question?”

Anya narrowed her gaze. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

He smirked, clearly satisfied with himself. “Nope.”

Impossible. The man was impossible.

* * *

Brock stomped his feet to loosen the snow from his boots as he stepped inside the ski patrol headquarters the next morning. The snow had finally stopped falling, at least for the time being. But it still clung to the ground—and everything else in Alaska, it seemed—as it would until the summer sun came and finally melted it all away. According to his research, Aurora was under snowfall nine months out of the year.

That meant nine months of danger of a slide. Slopes with an underlayer of old snow made things even worse. Aurora had snow in abundance. Weak snow. New snow. All kinds of snow.

“Good morning. Who’s your friend?” Cole’s eyebrows rose as he looked up from the book he was reading and took in the sight of Brock.

Brock loosened his arms from his backpack and let it slide gently to the floor. Aspen’s copper-colored head poked out from the top. He let out a little woof, indicating he was more than ready to be let loose.

“Morning. This is Aspen. He’s one of the pups in training I told you about.” Brock unzipped the backpack, and Aspen wiggled his way out.

“Why are you carrying him around like that? He looks more than capable of tromping through the snow.” Cole whistled for the dog and gave him a good scratch behind the ears. Aspen yelped with glee.

The two of them were bonding already. Good. “Sometimes the dogs need to be carried on the mountain—when loading onto a ski lift or riding a snow machine, for instance. I get in practice for those skills when I can.”