by Nora Roberts
The demands of the search exercise required her to order sit-and-stays while she took radio calls from the unit, answered questions, logged in positions.
At the end of an hour, the dogs settled down with chew treats, and Fiona at her laptop. When her radio crackled, she continued to keyboard one-handed.
“Base, this is Tracie. I have Sylvia. She’s conscious and lucid. Her right ankle may be sprained and is causing her some discomfort. She appears to be somewhat dehydrated and shaky, but otherwise uninjured. Over.”
“That’s good, Tracie. What’s your location, and do you require assistance transporting Sylvia to base? Over.”
Exercise or not, Fiona logged in the location, the time, the status. She may have smiled when she heard Sylvia playing up her victim role in the background, but she created a professional and complete log.
While they’d debrief as if the search had been real, Fiona felt such moments deserved commemoration. She set trays of brownies on her picnic table, added fruit platters for the more healthy-minded, pitchers of iced tea.
She had dog biscuits and a toy for the dogs—and for Lolo, Tracie’s clever German shepherd, a gold star for her tag collar.
As she carried glasses outside, Simon’s truck drove over her bridge.
It annoyed her to feel annoyed. She was basically a happy person, Fiona thought. A friendly one. She liked Simon well enough, and his dog quite a bit. But irritation pricked nonetheless.
Maybe part of it was because he just looked good—sort of rough and arty at the same time in battered jeans and expensive sunglasses—and somehow approachable (a misconception, in her opinion) with his adorable puppy.
He let the puppy race unleashed to greet her, then bounce like an over-wound spring to the other dogs, back to her before he tore off in circles around the yard in a bid to get her dogs to play.
“Having a picnic?” Simon asked.
“Of sorts.” She mimicked his oh-so-casual tone. “I have an advanced class on their way in from a practice search. Their first with a person. So we’ll have a little celebration.”
“With brownies.”
“I like brownies.”
“Who doesn’t?”
Jaws demonstrated his opinion by trying to climb onto the picnic bench to steal a sample. Fiona simply put his front paws back on the ground. “Off!”
“Yeah, good luck with that. He’s a freaking acrobat. Yesterday he managed to climb up on a stool and eat my sandwich—he likes pickles, apparently—in the five-point-two seconds my back was turned.”
“Consistency.” Fiona repeated the “Off!” command the second and third times Jaws attempted the snatch. “And distraction.”
She walked back a few steps, called him. He ran to her as if they’d just been reunited after a war. He sat when she ordered him to, then preened under her praise and pets. “Positive reinforcement.”
She dug a treat out of her pocket. “Good dog. He’s coming along.”
“Two days ago, he ate my flash drive. Just swallowed it whole like a vitamin pill.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah, so I rush him to the vet—and she takes a look and decides it’s small enough he doesn’t need it surgically removed. I’m supposed to . . .” Jaw set, he scowled off into the distance. “I don’t want to talk about that part, so we’ll just say I eventually got it back.”
“This, too, shall pass.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He picked up a brownie. “It still works. I haven’t decided if that’s amazing or disgusting.” He took a bite. “Good brownie.”
“Thanks. They’re the only things I can bake with regular success.” And since these had been a product of her two a.m. jitters, she’d had two for breakfast.
“What are you doing here, Simon?”
Some of her irritation must have come through as he gave her a long, silent look before answering. “I’m socializing my idiot dog. And you still owe me part of a lesson. Two for one. Three for one adding in the brownies.”
“Your dog’s handler could use some socialization.”
He polished off the brownie, poured himself a glass of iced tea. “I’m probably past the training age.”
“Despite the maxim, you actually can teach an old dog new tricks.”
“Maybe.” After downing the tea, he glanced around. “Shit. Where the hell is he?”
“He went in the tunnel.”
“The what?”
She gestured to the line of drums. “Let’s see what he does,” she suggested, and began to stroll to the far end.
They were here, she thought, with the human helping himself to her celebratory snacks. She might as well work in the lesson.
“If he just comes back out where he went in, let it go for now. But if he goes on through, give him praise, and a treat.” She handed Simon one.
“For going through a bunch of fifty-five-gallon drums?”
“Yes.” Her tone took on a scolding edge. “It takes curiosity, courage and some agility to not only go in, but go through and come out again.”
“And if he doesn’t come out at all?”
“I guess you leave him there and go home and watch ESPN.”
He studied the drums. “Some people would complain it’s sexist to assume I watch ESPN. Maybe I’m a fan of Lifetime.”
She gave up. “If he doesn’t come out on his own, you call, coax, try to lure. Failing that, you go in after him.”
“Great. Well, at least he can’t get into trouble in there. So you set up the radio, the computer, all those maps and charts for a make-believe rescue?”
“Eventually it won’t be make-believe. How’s sit and stay going?”
“Fine, unless he wants to do something else. Consistency,” he said before Fiona could. “I got the mantra, boss.”
Jaws gave a yip, then zipped out of the drum.
“Hey, he did it. That’s pretty good.” Simon crouched, and, in Fiona’s observation, didn’t pet and praise by rote. He enjoyed his dog’s success and excitement. When he laughed, gave the pup a good scratch with those long, artistic hands, she began to see why the dog found the man so appealing.
“He’s intrepid.” She hunkered down to add her approval to Simon’s, and realized they both smelled of his wood shop. “If a client’s interested in agility training, I’d start a puppy this age off with one drum, so he can see all the way through. Jaws just skipped a few grades on this one.”
“Hear that? Intrepid eater of flash drives, wood chips and kosher pickles.”
He grinned at Fiona, eye to eye. She saw fascinating flecks of bronze scattered on the tawny gold.
As the look held, one beat, then two, Simon gave a considering Hmmm.
“Forget it.” She got to her feet. “Let’s see his sit and stay. My class should be back any minute.”
“You’re still bent about the cabinet.”
“What cabinet?” she asked with the sweetest of smiles.
“Uh-huh. Okay, sit and stay. Jaws, you’re about to lose your head-of-the-class status.”
“You know, a little optimism and confidence translate, to dogs and to people. Or maybe you just like anticipating failure.”
“I consider it realism.” When he ordered the pup to sit, Jaws plopped his butt down cooperatively. “He’s got that one, mostly, but now it gets tricky. Stay.” He held up a hand. “Stay,” he repeated and began to back up.
The dog thumped his tail but stayed seated.
“He’s doing well.”
“Showing off for teacher. At home, odds are he’d be chasing his tail by now, or trying to chew on my boots while I’m wearing them.” He called the dog, rewarded.
“Do it again. Increase the distance.”
Simon took Jaws on the second round, stretching the space between them on the “Stay.” Then, at Fiona’s instructions, a third time until dog and man were a good twenty-five feet apart.
“Don’t frown at the dog when he’s doing what he’s told.”
“I’m not frowning.”
“Let’s call it your default expression. You’re confusing him. Call him in.”
Jaws responded and took the last couple of feet on his belly before rolling over to expose it.
“You did good, you did fine. Show-off,” Simon muttered as he bent down to rub.
“He switched to submissive mode because he wasn’t sure what you were after. You asked him for something, he gave it, and you stand there scowling at him. He gets an A.” Fiona knelt down to stroke Jaws into delirium. “You get a C minus.”
“Hey.”
“My class is coming back. Hold him. Give him the stay command and keep him still for a few seconds. Then you can give him the release, let him go greet.”
“How?”
“Sit and stay—holding him as he’s going to want to run and see who’s coming.” As she spoke she checked her watch for the log. “Then give him the go—use simple phrasing, something natural to you. Say hi, go ahead, greet. Whatever. Then let him loose.”
She rose, walked away to meet the first of her returning students.
“You wanted me to look bad, didn’t you? You think I’m not on to you?” Simon held the puppy in place while rubbing his ears. “Not as dumb as you look, are you? Just wanted to impress the pretty girl. Okay . . . check it out,” he said, and let Jaws race over to sniff and dance around the returning students.
By the time he walked over, Fiona was listening to the handlers describe how their dogs had performed, noting down the area covered, the number of alerts.
Simon pulled the leash out of his pocket.
“Why don’t you let him hang out, play with the others awhile,” Fiona suggested. She glanced up from her log. “You want him to get used to being around people, other dogs, ones he hasn’t met before. A little socialization wouldn’t hurt you either. Have another brownie. Maybe you can end the day on a higher grade.”
“I’ll take the brownie, but—” He broke off as Sylvia limped out of the woods, leaning on a makeshift crutch, with a woman supporting her on one side and a man on the other while a pair of dogs pranced ahead.
“She’s all right.” Fiona laid a hand on his arm to stop him from crossing over to help. “Make-believe, remember? The exercise involved a lost woman with a minor injury. She plays it up.”
The class broke into applause. Sylvia took an exaggerated bow, then gestured grandly to the woman and dog beside her.
“That’s Tracie and her Lolo. They found Syl in just under seventy-five minutes. Not bad. Not bad at all. Mica’s the one helping her out, with his Ringo. His positioning at the successful find was close enough for him to intersect with Tracie and assist in bringing Syl, with her fake sprained ankle, back to base. Besides, he’s got a crush on her.”
“On Syl? Like brownies, who doesn’t?”
“Not on Syl.” Though she shook her head, Fiona found herself amused and a little proud at Simon’s comment. “On Tracie. They’re both from the Bellingham area, like the rest of the unit. Excuse me.”
She closed the distance to give Tracie a handshake, then a hug, to fuss over the dogs. To laugh with Sylvia, he noted.
She did have an appealing way, he supposed. If you liked the überoutgoing, the type who tended to touch or embrace in a kind of second nature, and looked good in jeans or work pants, sweatshirts or sweaters.
He couldn’t think of a woman who fell into that subset ever attracting him before, not sexually in any case. The fact that she did presented an interesting puzzle.
Maybe it was her eyes. They were so clear, so calm. He suspected they were just one of the reasons animals responded to her. You felt you could trust those eyes.
He watched as she slung her arm around Tracie’s shoulders—there was that just-have-to-touch, just-have-to-connect aspect of her—and led the woman over to . . . What would she call it? he wondered. Base? HQ? Anyway, it was a table under a pole tarp.
Debriefing, he assumed, noting down whatever data needed to be noted down. It struck him as a little over the top for an exercise. Then he remembered she’d found a little boy in the very big woods, in a cold rain.
Details mattered. Discipline and efficiency mattered.
In any case, the brownies were excellent, and the interlude gave him a chance to flirt with Sylvia.
“How are you coping after your ordeal?” he asked her.
Sylvia laughed, poked him in the chest. “I love when I get to play the lost woman. I get some exercise—wandering around, then either plopping in my spot or wandering some more. It depends on which victim behavior Fee wants to replicate. It’s handy you came by. I was going to call you when I got home today.”
“Yeah? To ask me on a date?”
“You’re so cute. I sold two of your pieces yesterday. The high-sided bench and the five-drawer chest. I’ll take more whenever you can get it to me.”
“I finished a couple of things this morning actually. A wine cabinet and a rocker.”
“Ah, the famous wine cabinet.”
He shrugged, glanced back at Fiona. “It’s not her style, that’s all.”
Sylvia smiled and nibbled on a strawberry. “She has a lot of styles. You should ask her out to dinner.”
“Why?”
“Simon, if I thought that was a serious question, I’d be worried about you.”
She hooked her arm through his as Fiona addressed her class.
“Everyone did a solid job today, as individuals, as teams and as a unit. Next class we’ll be working a different terrain with an unconscious victim. I want you to work your dogs thirty to sixty minutes, mixing in short ten-minute problems. Let’s keep using someone your dog is familiar with. After the next class, you can try someone he or she doesn’t know. Please don’t skimp on your first-aid training, and let’s try some of those exercises compass only. Keep your logs up-to-date. Any problems, any questions before next time, shoot me an e-mail or give me a call.
“And please, God, finish off those brownies so I don’t.”
Sylvia gave Simon a kiss on the cheek. “I’ve got to run. Check on my shop and my Oreo. You can bring the new pieces in whenever you want. And take my girl out to dinner.”
He lingered out of curiosity, and because his dog had finally played himself out and was passed out under the table.
“He’s had enough for today,” Fiona commented when they were alone. She began to gather dishes.
“Question.” He picked up empty glasses and followed her toward the house. “Those people take your class.”
“Obviously.”
“This was what, like two hours?”
“A little more. This is an advanced stage, and a mock Search and Rescue, so it was set up, search, debrief—add the pat on the back.”
“And between that they’ve got to work with the dogs an hour here, an hour there, study first aid—”
“Yes. One of them’s an EMT, and they’ll all need to be certified in CPR, and basic field treatments. They’ll also have to know how to read a topographical map, have a good working knowledge of climate, wind, foliage, wildlife. Both they and their dogs have to be in good physical shape.”
She set the dishes on the counter in the kitchen.
“So when do any of them have time for an actual life?”
She leaned back. “They have lives, jobs, families. They also have dedication. Becoming a Search and Rescue team takes months of hard, focused training. It means sacrifice and it brings enormous satisfaction. I’ve been working with this unit for weeks,” she added. “They have an almost ninety percent success rate on individual problems. Now we’re working simultaneously. We’ll be repeating this sort of training exercise over and over, in all weather situations.”
“Have you ever kicked anybody out?”
“Yes. As a last resort, but yes. Most of the time someone who isn’t suited drops out before I have to. Are you interested?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, it might cut into your Lifetime addiction. Still, I wouldn’t mind givi
ng Jaws some of the early training. It’ll help him be well rounded, if nothing else. Once he heels, sits and stays, masters recall and drop on recall, we can give him a little more.”
“More than the obedience deal?” Simon studied her, dubious. “What’s it cost?”
She angled her head. “I might be open to the barter system on this one. Say, working on additional training and specialized skills for . . . a wine cabinet.”
“It doesn’t suit you.”
Narrow-eyed, she pushed off the counter. “You know, every time you say that it just makes me want it more. I ought to know what suits me.”
“You’re just being stubborn.”
“I am?” She pointed the index fingers of both hands at him. “You’re the hardhead here. What do you care who buys the cabinet? Aren’t you building to sell?”
“What do you care if a dog’s crap at training? Don’t you teach to get paid?”
“It’s not the same thing. Plus it’s usually the handler that’s crap. Case in point, Mr. C Minus.”
“I wasn’t frowning.”
“Hold that. Don’t move, don’t change expression. I’m going to get a mirror.”
He grabbed her arm but didn’t quite swallow the laugh. “Cut it out.”
“Next class I’ll make sure I have a camera. A picture’s worth a thousand, after all.” She gave him a little shove.
He gave her a little nudge.
And behind him the dog growled low in his throat.
“Stop!” Fiona ordered sharply, and the dog froze. “Newman, friend. Friend. He thought you were hurting me. No, don’t back off. Simon,” she said to the dogs. “We’re playing. Simon’s a friend. Put your arms around me.”
“What?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t be so dainty.” She put her arms around Simon, hugged, laid her head on his shoulder. “Playing with Simon,” Fiona said to the dog, and smiled. She gestured so the dog walked to them, rubbed against Simon’s leg. “He wouldn’t have bitten you.”