by Nora Roberts
“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?”
“It takes about ten seconds for a puppy to get bored. Bored puppies chew. Happy puppies chew. Sad puppies chew.”
“Tell me about it,” Simon said bitterly. “I bought him a mountain of chew deals, but he goes for shoes, furniture, freaking rocks and everything else—including my new truck. Here.” He shoved the puppy at Fiona. “Do something.”
She cradled the pup, who immediately bathed her face as if they were reunited lovers. She caught the faintest whiff of leather on his warm puppy breath.
“Aren’t you cute? Are you a pretty boy?”
“He’s a monster.” Simon snarled it. “An escape artist who doesn’t sleep. If I take my eye off him for two minutes, he eats something or breaks something or finds the most inappropriate place to relieve himself. I haven’t had a minute’s peace in three weeks.”
“Um-hmm.” She snuggled the pup. “What’s his name?”
Simon shot a look at the dog that didn’t speak of returning sloppy kisses. “Jaws.”
“Very appropriate. Well, let’s see what he’s made of.” She crouched down with him, then signaled her dogs to release. As they trotted over, she set the puppy on the ground.
Some puppies would cower, some would hide or run away. But others, like Jaws, were made of sterner stuff. He leaped at the dogs, yipping and wagging. He sniffed as they sniffed, quivered with glee, nipped at legs and tails.
“Brave little soldier,” Fiona murmured.
“He has no fear. Make him afraid.”
She sighed, shook her head. “Why did you get a dog?”
“Because my mother gave him to me. Now I’m stuck with him. I like dogs, okay? I’ll trade him for one of yours right now. You pick.”
She studied Simon’s sharp-boned, stubbled face. “Not getting much sleep, are you?”
“The only way I get so much as an hour at a time is if I put him in the bed. He’s already ripped every pillow I own to shreds. And he’s started on the mattress.”
“You should try crate-training him.”
“I got a crate. He ate the crate. Or enough of it to get out. I think he must be able to flatten himself like a snake. I can’t get any work done. I think maybe he’s brain-damaged, or just psychotic.”
“What he is, is a baby who needs a lot of playtime, love, patience and discipline,” she corrected as Jaws merrily humped Newman’s leg.
“Why does he do that? He’ll hump anything. If he’s a baby, why does he think about humping everything?”
“It’s instinct—and an attempt to show dominance. He wants to be the big dog. Bogart! Get the rope!”
“Jesus, I don’t want to hang him. Exactly,” Simon said, as the black Lab dashed for the porch and through the open door.
The dog came out with the rope between his teeth, bounded to Fiona and dropped it at her feet. When she reached for it, he lowered on his front paws, shot his butt in the air and wagged.
Fiona shook the rope. Bogart bounded up, chomped down and, snarling and pulling, engaged in a spirited tug-of-war.
Jaws abandoned Newman, made a running leap for the rope, missed, fell on his back. He rolled, leaped again, little jaws snapping, tail a mad metronome.
“Want the rope, Jaws? Want the rope? Play!” She lowered it so he could reach, and when his puppy teeth latched on, she released.
Bogart’s tug lifted the puppy off the ground and he wiggled and clung like a furry fish on
the line.
Determined, she mused, and was pleased when Bogart dipped down so the pup hit the ground, then adjusted his pull for the smaller dog.
“Peck, Newman, get the balls. Get the balls!”
Like their packmate, Peck and Newman dashed off. They came back with yellow tennis balls, spat them at Fiona’s feet. “Newman, Peck! Race!” She heaved the balls in quick succession so both dogs gave chase.
“Nice arm.” Simon watched as the dogs retrieved, repeated the return.
This time she made a kissing sound that had Jaws angling his head even while he pulled on the rope. She tossed the balls in the air a couple times, studying his eye line. “Race!” she repeated.
As the big dogs sprinted off, the puppy scrambled after them.
“He has a strong play instinct—and that’s a good thing. You just need to channel it. He’s had his vet visits, his shots?”
“Up-to-date. Tell me you’ll take him. I’ll pay room and board.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” As she spoke, she took the returned balls, threw them again. “I take him, I take you. You’re a unit now. If you’re not going to commit to the dog, to his training, his health and well-being, I’ll help you find a home for him.”
“I’m not a quitter.” Simon jammed his hands in his pockets as once again Fiona threw the balls. “Besides, my mother would . . . I don’t want to go there. She’s got this idea that since I moved out here, I need companionship. It’s a wife or a dog. She can’t give me a wife, so . . .”
He frowned as the big yellow Lab let the pup get the ball. Prancing triumphantly, Jaws brought it back.
“He fetched.”
“Yes, he did. Ask him for it.”
“What?”
“Tell him to give you the ball. Crouch down, hold out your hand and tell him to give you the ball.”
Simon crouched, held out his hand. “Give me—” Jaws leaped into his lap, nearly bowling Simon over, and rapped his ball-carrying mouth into his face.
“Tell him ‘off,’ ” Fiona instructed, and had to bite the inside of her cheek as obviously, from his expression, Simon Doyle didn’t see the humor. “Set him down on his rump. Hold him down, gently, and take the ball away. When you’ve got the ball, say, ‘Good dog,’ repeat it, be enthusiastic. Smile.”
Simon did as he was told, though it was easier said than done with a dog that could wiggle like a wet worm.
“There, he’s successfully fetched and returned. You’ll use small bits of food and lavish praise, the same commands, over and over again. He’ll catch on.”
“Tricks are great, but I’m really more interested in teaching him not to destroy my house.” He shot a bitter look at the mangled headrest. “Or my truck.”
“Following any command is a discipline. He’ll learn to do what you ask, if you train him with play. He wants to play—he wants to play with you. Reward him, with play, and with food, with praise and affection, and he’ll learn to respect the rules of the house. He wants to please you,” she added when the pup rolled over to expose his belly. “He loves you.”
“Then he’s an easy target since we’ve had a rocky and short relationship.”
“Who’s your vet?”
“Funaki.”
“Mai’s the best. I’ll want copies of his medical records for my files.”
“I’ll get them to you.”
“You’ll want to buy some small dog treats—the sort he can just chomp down rather than the bigger ones he’d need to stop and chew. Instant gratification. You’ll want a head collar and a leash in addition to his regular collar.”
“I had a leash. He—”
“Ate it,” Fiona finished. “It’s common enough.”
“Great. Head collar? Like a muzzle?”
She read Simon’s face clearly enough and was unsurprised when she saw him considering the idea of a muzzle. And was pleased when she noted his rejecting frown.
“No. It’s like a halter, and it’s gentle and effective. You’ll use it during training sessions here and at home. Instead of putting pressure on the throat, it puts pressure—gentle pressure—on calming points. It helps persuade a dog to walk rather than lunge and pull, to heel. And it’ll give him more control as well as put you more in tune with your pup.”
“Fine. Whatever works.”
“I’d advise you to replace or repair the crate and lay in a very big supply of chew toys and rawhide. The rope’s pretty much no-fail, but you’ll want tennis balls, rawhide bones, that sort of thing. I’ll give you a basic list of recommendations and requirements for training. I’ve got a class in . . .” She checked her watch. “Crap. Thirty minutes. And I didn’t call Syl.”
As Jaws began to leap and try to climb up her leg, she simply bent over, pushed his rump to the ground. “Sit.” Because she didn’t have a reward, she crouched, held him in place to pet and praise. “You might as well stay if you’ve got the time. I’ll sign you up.”
“I don’t have a million dollars on me.”
She released the pup, picked him up to cuddle. “Got thirty?”
“Probably.”
“Thirty for a thirty-minute group session. He’s, what, about three months old?”
“About.”
“We’ll make it work. It’s an eight-week course. You’re two behind. I’ll juggle in two individual sessions to bring him up to speed. Does that work for you?”
Simon shrugged. “It’s cheaper than a new truck.”
“Considerably. I’ll lend you a leash and a head collar for now.” Still carrying the puppy, she walked to the house.
“What if I paid you fifty, and you worked with him solo?”
She spared him a glance. “That’s not what I do. He’s not the only one who needs training.” She led him into the house before passing the puppy back to him. “You can come on back. I’ve got some extra leashes and collars, and you need some treats. I have to make a phone call.”
She veered off the kitchen to the utility room, where collars and leashes and brushes hung neatly according to type and size, and various toys and treats sat organized on shelves.
It made him think of a small pet boutique.
She gave Jaws another glance as he squirmed in Simon’s arms and tried to gnaw on his master’s hand.
“Do this.”
She turned to the pup and, using her forefinger and thumb, gently closed his mouth. “No.” And keeping her eyes on the dog’s, she reached behind her, took a rawhide chew toy shaped like a bone. “This is yours.” When he clamped it, she nodded. “Good dog! Go ahead and set him down. When he chews on you, or something else he shouldn’t, do what I did. Correct, give him a vocal command and replace with what’s his. Give positive reinforcement. Consistently. Find a leash and a collar for him.”
She stepped out into the kitchen, grabbed the phone and hit her stepmother’s number on speed dial. “Crap,” she muttered when it shifted to voice mail. “Syl, I hope you’re not already on your way. I got distracted and forgot to call. I’m home. We found the little boy. He’s fine. Decided to chase a rabbit and got lost, but no worse for wear. Anyway, if you’re on your way, I’ll see you here. If not, thanks for the standby, and I’ll call you later. Bye.”
She replaced the phone and turned to see Simon in the doorway, a leash in one hand and a small head collar in the other. “These?”
“Those should work.”
“What little boy?”
“Hmm. Oh, Hugh Cauldwell—he and his parents are here for a few days’ vacation in the state park. He wandered out of the house and into the forest this morning while they were sleeping. You didn’t hear?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Because it’s Orcas. Anyway, he’s fine. Home safe.”
“You work for the park?”
“No. I’m part of Canine Search and Rescue Association volunteers.”
Simon gestured toward the three dogs, currently sprawled on the kitchen floor like corpses. “Those?”
“Th
at’s right. Trained and certified. You know, Jaws might be a good candidate for S-and-R training.”
He snorted out what might’ve been a laugh. “Right.”
“Strong play drive, curious, courageous, friendly, physically sound.” She lifted her eyebrows as the pup left his new toy to attack the laces on Simon’s boots. “Energetic. Forget your training already, human?”
“Huh?”
“Correct and replace and praise.”
“Oh.” He crouched, repeated the series Fiona had demonstrated. Jaws clamped on the toy, then spat it out and went for the laces again.
“Just keep doing it. I need to put some things together.” She started out, stopped. “Can you work that coffeemaker?”
He glanced to the unit on the counter. “I can figure it out.”
“Do that, will you? Black, one sugar. I’m running low.”
He frowned after her.
While he’d only been on the island a few months, he doubted he’d ever get used to the casual, open-door policy. Just come on in, complete stranger, he thought, and while you’re at it, make me some coffee while I leave you virtually alone.
She only had his word on who he was, and besides that, nobody knew he was there. What if he was a psycho? A rapist? Okay, three dogs, he mused, eyeing them again. But so far they’d been friendly, and about as casual as their mistress.
And currently, they were snoring away.
He wondered how she managed to live with three dogs when he could barely find a way to tolerate one. Looking down, he saw the pup had stopped chewing on his bootlaces because he’d fallen asleep sprawled over the boot, with the laces still caught in his teeth.
With the same care and caution a man might use when easing away from a wild boar, Simon slowly slid his foot back, holding his breath until the pup oozed like furred water onto the kitchen floor.
Passed out cold.
One day, he thought as he crossed to the coffeemaker, he’d find a way to pay his mother back. One fine day.
He studied the machine, checked the bean and water supply. When he switched it on the burr of the grinder had the pup waking with a barrage of ferocious barks. Across the room, the dogs cocked their ears. One of them yawned.
The movement had Jaws leaping with joy, then charging the pack like a cannonball.