The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5

by Nora Roberts

  “Me too.”

  “He’d be so proud of you. He was proud of you, but—”

  “I know he was, and I like knowing he’d be proud and happy with what I’ve done. With what I’m doing.” She let out a breath. “Greg would, too. I think. So much of him’s faded, his voice, his scent, even his face. I never thought I’d have to pull out a photo to bring his face clearly into my head.”

  “Seven years is a long time. You were so young, sweetie. I know you loved him, but you were so young. You didn’t have much time together really.”

  “Almost two years, and he taught me so much. I have what I have now because of what Greg taught me, what he showed me, what he gave me. I did love him, Syl, but I can’t remember what it felt like anymore. I can’t bring back how he made me feel.”

  “We loved him, too, your dad and I. He was a good, good man.”

  “The best.”

  “Fee, maybe you can’t bring back what you felt for him because it’s time you let yourself feel for someone else.”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes . . . well, sometimes I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for that.”

  “Feelings don’t always happen when we’re ready for them.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe I’ll get a surprise. But for now, I’ve got enough to keep me occupied. Don’t forget the Uggs.”

  AFTER HER ADVANCED CLASS, a group of six including Oreo, Fiona prepared for her special-skills group, novice level. Most of the students were off-islanders with hopes to earn certifications as Search and Rescue dogs. Some in this larger class would make it, some would not. But she knew every dog and owner would benefit from the additional and more specialized training.

  As students arrived, it was socialization time—for canines and humans. Not a waste of time, in her opinion, but a vital step. A dog who couldn’t be or wouldn’t be socialized would never make the cut. And the ten-minute “mixer” gave her the opportunity to judge how well the dogs and handlers were doing with their at-home training.

  She watched, her hands in the sagging pockets of an ancient hooded jacket. “Okay, let’s get started. We’ll run the basics first.”

  She ran them through heeling, on then off leash—with mixed results.

  “Snitch, Waldo,” she said, addressing the dogs rather than the owners. “We’re going to need to practice those off-leash skills a little more at home. We’re close, but you can do better. Let’s try recall. Handlers, step away. I want you to wait until your dog is distracted, then give the command. Let’s be firm. Don’t forget reward and positive reinforcement.”

  She deliberately distracted some of the young dogs herself. Petting, playing. Still, the percentage of success pleased her. That percentage faltered on drop on recall as most of the dogs wanted to play when called.

  She culled out the worst offenders, assigning the others to work on sit-stay while she did a few one-on-ones.

  “There are good reasons you need your dog to stop instantly. There could be danger he doesn’t understand. In addition, that instant and complete response shows absolute trust. When you say Stop! or whatever word you choose for that command, your dog needs to obey without hesitation. Let’s work on this with close proximity. Walk with your dog heeling, off leash, then try your drop command. Callie, can I use Snitch to demonstrate?”

  It wasn’t the dog portion of the partnership that needed work, but the human, in Fiona’s opinion. Callie tended to be hesitant.

  In minutes, with a sure, firm tone, Fiona had the puppy heeling like a champ and dropping on command like a soldier.

  “I don’t know why he won’t do it for me.”

  “He knows he can mess with you, Callie. He doesn’t believe you mean it, that you’re in charge. You don’t have to yell or be angry, but you have to be firm. Your voice, your face, your body language. Convince him you mean business.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Slightly better, Fiona judged—but she figured it was residual behavior from her own round with Snitch. Unless Callie toughened up, the little golden would walk all over her, and back again.

  “Okay, short break for playtime.”

  It was the signal her own dogs waited for. They joined in the five minutes of chaos, the running, fetching, bounding after balls, rolling in wrestling groups.

  “I don’t mean to complain.”

  Fiona added on another layer of patience as Earl Gainer, retired cop and owner of a very clever young German shepherd, began all his complaints the same way.

  “What’s the problem, Earl?”

  “I understand one of your tenets is exploiting the play drive, but it just seems to me we spend an awful lot of time letting all these dogs fool around.”

  And time, she knew, meant money as well.

  “I know it might seem frivolous, but at this age, their attention span is very short. There’s a real danger of overtraining. If a dog gets frustrated, simply can’t keep up with all the new demands and expectations, he can give up, or revert or rebel. They need time to work off some of that puppy energy—and to continue their socialization with other dogs, other humans. We’re going to try a couple new things in the second thirty minutes today.”

  Earl brightened immediately. “Like what?”

  “Let’s give them another couple minutes. Kojak has a lot of potential. You know that. He’s smart, eager to please. If you stick with this another couple weeks, we’ll be into some scent training. Before we go there, we’re going to cement the bond, the socialization and the tractability.”

  Earl puffed out his cheeks. “I heard about what you and your dog did yesterday, finding that boy. That’s what I want to do.”

  “I know, and with your training, your experience, you’ll be a great asset. Let’s help Kojak want to do the same. He’s on his way, I promise you.”

  “Everybody who knows says you’re one of the best in the state, maybe in the Northwest. That’s why we’re taking that ferry ride twice a week. Well, hell, he’s having fun anyway.”

  “And learning.” She gave Earl’s arm a pat.

  She called her own dogs, sent them to the porch where they sprawled to watch the show.

  “Heel your dogs,” Fiona called out, and waited for the line to form. “A Search and Rescue dog can and is called on to search in various terrains, rough ground, frozen ground, rock, woods, urban settings. And water. Today, we’re going to introduce water.”

  She gestured to a child’s wading pool she’d already filled, then picked up a rubber ball. “Each of you, in turn, will take your dog off leash, then toss this ball into the pool. I want you to command your dog to fetch. Don’t worry. I have towels. Earl, why don’t you and Kojak go first? Position about ten feet away.”

  Earl took the ball, got into position. He unleashed his dog, gave him a quick rub, showed him the ball. “Get it, Kojak!” he yelled as he tossed it.

  The dog took off like a bullet, made a leap—and a splash. He came up with the ball in his mouth and a shocked look on his face that clearly translated into, to Fiona’s mind, What the fuck!

  But he leaped out again, returned to Earl when his master snapped a finger.

  Show-off, Fiona thought, but with a grin, and one that widened as Kojak shook ferociously and soaked his proud and praising owner.

  “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.

  FOUR

  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.

  He liked standing on his rise and listening to the subtle and steady music of the water below, or sitting for a while on the porch of his shop and contemplating the thick forest that closed him in as the sound opened him out.

  He’d moved to the island for a reason, after all.

  For the solitude, the quiet, the air, the abundance of scenery.

  Maybe, in some convoluted way, his mother had been right to foist a dog on him. It forced him to get outside—which was a big part of the purpose of relocating. Gave him a chance to look around, relax, get in tune with what moved around him. Air, water, trees, hills, rocks—all potential inspirations for a design.

  Colors, shapes, textures, curves and angles.

  This little chunk of land, the woods and the water, the rocky slope, the
chip and chatter of birds instead of cars and people offered exactly what he’d been after.

  He decided he’d build himself a sturdy bench for this spot, something rustic and organic. Teak, he thought, reclaimed if he could find it, with arms wide enough to hold a beer.

  He turned back to his shop for paper to sketch ideas on and remembered the dog.

  He called, annoyed the pup wasn’t sniffing around his feet as he seemed prone to do half the time so he ended up tripping over the damn dog or stepping on him.

  He called again, then again. Cursing while a messy brew of annoyance, guilt and panic stirred up in his belly, Simon began the hunt.

  He looked back in the shop to see if the dog had backtracked to wreak destruction, around the building, in the brush and shrubs while he called and whistled. He scanned the slope leading down to the water, and the skinny lane leading from the house to the road.

  He looked under the shop porch, then hiked to the house to circle it, check under the porches there.

  Not a sign.

  He was a dog, for God’s sake, Simon told himself. He’d come back. He was a little dog, so how far could he go? Reassuring himself, he walked back to the shop where he’d last seen the damn troublemaker and started into the woods.

  Now, with his interlude of peace shattered, the play of light and shadow, the sigh of wind, the tangled briars all seemed ominous.

  Could a hawk or an owl snag a dog that size? he wondered. Once, he’d thought he spotted a bald eagle. But . . .

  Sure, the pup was little, but he was solid.

  Stopping, he took a breath to reassure himself he wasn’t panicked. Not in the least. Pissed off, that’s what he was. Seriously pissed off at having to waste the time and energy hunting for a stupid puppy he’d imagined braining with a mallet.

  Christ.

  He bellowed the dog’s name—and finally heard the answering yips. Yips, Simon determined, as the nerves banging in his gut settled down, that didn’t sound remotely scared or remorseful but full of wild joy.