Alaskan Hero

He tossed his chunk of wood—now carved into a nice, smooth sphere—onto the workbench. “It was a bit warm, I’m afraid.”

“That’s a shame. Perhaps you can find something lighter. I hear faux elk fur is more ventilated.”

She was baiting him, clearly angling for an explanation as to why he’d been dressed as a bear when she arrived.

Brock wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction. If she’d simply come out and asked, he likely would have. But not now. “My elk suit is at the cleaners.”

She rolled her eyes, but he could see the trace of a smile on her lips. “So when do my training lessons start?”

“They already did.” He nodded toward the paper, still dangling from her fingertips. “That was your first one.”

“And how is reading the newspaper to your puppies all afternoon supposed to get my dog quiet and out from under the bed?” Something close to anger flashed in her amethyst eyes.

Brock chastised himself. What was he doing looking at those eyes again? “That’s for you to figure out.”

“You’re seriously not going to explain it to me?”

“Nope.” He smiled, which only seemed to make her more agitated.

He could have spelled it out for her, could have told her to get down on her dog’s level and spend time there. Loads of time, doing ordinary things, until the dog became comfortable with her there. But he’d always been a believer in doing instead of telling. People typically learned more if they had to think things through.

“I’m almost afraid to ask what lesson number two will involve.” Anya shoved the newspaper at his chest.

He caught it before she spun on her heel and made a beeline for the door.

“Come back at the same time tomorrow and you’ll find out,” he said to her back.

She turned, and a curtain of amber hair spilled over her shoulder. For the first time, Brock noticed a hint of warm mocha in her skin tone. She shot a parting glance at him, and a jolt of attraction hit Brock so hard that he nearly stumbled backward.

And the way that one captivating look settled in his gut told Brock things were going to get quite a bit more complicated than he’d bargained for.

Chapter Two

Darkness had fallen over Aurora by the time Anya left Brock’s house. Of course, this was Alaska, so it had likely gotten dark shortly after 4:30—probably around the time she’d been reading the curling scores to Brock’s sleeping dogs.

Now it was nearly six o’clock, which meant she’d have to head straight to church or she’d be late for knitting group. She’d hoped to have time to run home and let Dolce out first. A familiar wave of panic washed over her when she thought of the mournful howls that were likely emanating from her cottage.

Anya let out a huff of frustration. By now she thought she’d have some inkling as to what to do about the ongoing Dolce problem. But, although an entire afternoon spent at the dog genius’s home had proved interesting, to say the least, she was just as clueless as ever.

Clueless, but still determined to get through to the dog. Giving up wasn’t an option.

The first time Anya had seen Dolce, the poor dog was being kicked in the ribs. She’d watched, horrified, from the window at the coffee shop where she worked at the Northern Lights Inn, convinced what she was seeing wasn’t real...until the little dog let out a yelp.

Then she’d marched right outside and confronted the abuser. He’d been huge, easily a foot taller and nearly twice as broad as Anya. He’d also been more than a little drunk, which was no excuse for mistreating an animal. Anya had wedged herself between dog and man, crossed her arms and told him to behave himself or she’d call the police. She could only attribute the fact that he’d gone still to the frantic prayers she’d been uttering under her breath. Or perhaps, in his drunken haze, he’d seen two or three of her. A whole group of angry females instead of only one. Her heart had just about beat right out of her chest as she stood there, fully expecting the man to unleash his fury on her in place of his dog. In the end, he’d stumbled away, abandoning the pup without a parting glance.

And Anya had suddenly found herself with a dog.

She’d made up her mind right then and there to show the dog what love—and a real home—was all about. Something about seeing her shivering out in the cold, beaten down and all alone in the world, reminded Anya of herself as a baby. She’d never been abused, thank goodness. And she’d had her mother, of course, even after her father had walked out. But her mother had been too caught up in the bitterness of being left to provide much comfort to Anya, even as she grew into a young woman.

Anya knew better than to fantasize about changing the past, but she could change the future. At least for Dolce. She wouldn’t abandon her now, even if things were less than ideal.

But if Dolce didn’t get over her anxiety soon, Anya might not have a choice in the matter. In addition to being only marginally fulfilling, working as a barista also meant she was only marginally solvent. She couldn’t afford to move out of her rent-free cottage.

Her disappointment in the first “training session” with Brock ebbed somewhat as she put on her parking brake and headed inside Aurora Community Church’s Fellowship Hall. Even though she’d been attending church regularly for several months now, the feeling of peace evoked by simply walking through the front door never failed to catch her by surprise. She’d spent many years uncomfortable with even the mention of God. Something about growing up with an absent dad didn’t exactly inspire confidence in a God known to most as God the Father.

When Clementine, an avid churchgoer, had moved to Aurora and she and Anya became fast friends, the invitations to church events came rolling in. Anya managed to decline each one politely yet succinctly. Then Clementine’s husband, Ben, left town for two weeks to mush his dog sledding team in a race out by Fairbanks. Anya’s resistance wavered at the thought of Clementine sitting in a pew alone, so she finally gave in. And that day the pastor had read a verse from the Bible that had stolen the breath from Anya’s lungs.

Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.

Anya had experienced her fair share of leaving. The holy words had hit her square in the chest and burrowed deep inside. They’d danced in her thoughts all week until she found herself back in the pew the following Sunday. And the Sunday after that—the day she’d rescued Dolce. She’d known at once the timing of saving her couldn’t be a coincidence. For the first time, she felt as though she’d been put somewhere for a reason.

And here she was now, headed to church again. On a Monday night, no less.

“Anya, hi.”

“Hey, Anya.”

A chorus of hellos rose up to greet her as she breezed into the fellowship hall, a former gymnasium the church now used for casual events such as youth group meetings and potluck suppers. And knitting, of course. She waved at the half-dozen women gathered around the long, rectangular table situated in the center of the room and found a seat between Clementine and Sue Chase. Like Clementine, Sue was a musher’s wife. The two of them were long-time Christians. Not babies in the faith, as Anya sometimes thought of herself. They were very involved in organizing ways to help the community. In fact, the knitting group had been Sue’s idea.

“Good evening, ladies,” Sue said, and the clickety-clack of knitting needles came to a stop.

Anya pulled her own needles and ball of yarn out of her tote bag as she listened.

“Next week, Gus is taking a couple of volunteer doctors out to the Bush to treat people in some of the more impoverished villages.” Sue absently wound a length of red yarn around her fingers.

Gus was the manager of Aurora’s one and only grocery store. He was also a pilot who made regular runs out to the Bush, the area of Alaska that was off the road network and inaccessible by car.

“I’d love it if we could get together at least two dozen hats to send along. So far we have twenty.” Sue’s gaze flitted around the table. “Do you all think we could get together four more before next week?”

“I’m almost finished with mine.” Clementine held up a nearly complete hat, crafted of pink yarn sprinkled with sequins.

Anya couldn’t help but laugh. It was classic Clementine.

“What’s so funny?” Clementine whispered.

“Nothing.” Anya shrugged. “I hope the underprivileged like sparkle, that’s all.”

Clementine looked down at her hat. “Of course they do. Doesn’t everyone?”

Anya’s hat was a bit simpler, crafted of a fuzzy plum-colored yarn. She was a baby knitter, in addition to being a baby Christian. Finishing her hat by next week would be a challenge, but she really liked the idea of keeping someone warm in a cold Alaskan winter. Since discovering God, Anya was trying to make her life count for something. Something bigger than herself. Saving Dolce was only the start.

She’d need to start knitting at home to get caught up. She bit her lip and went to work wrapping the yarn around her needles.

“Oh.” Clementine’s hands stopped moving. “I almost forgot to ask. Did you make it out to Brock Parker’s house today?”

Anya frowned. “I sure did.” She hadn’t meant to inject an edge to her voice, but there it was.

Clementine’s knitting dropped to her lap. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“That row you just purled is so tight, it’s about to snap in two. Something’s most definitely wrong.”

Ugh, she was right. The row was way too snug. Anya unraveled it. “Nothing’s wrong. Brock Parker is a crazy man, that’s all.”

“Crazy?” Clementine tilted her head. “Are you sure? He’s kind of a big deal, you know.”

“A big deal? How?” Unless she meant big as in tall and rather strapping—ahem—Anya wasn’t sure what she was talking about.

“He’s pretty famous. He goes all over the world setting up special canine rescue teams for areas prone to avalanches. And Ben says he’s found dozens of people who got caught in slides. You should Google him.”

Anya raised her brows. “Does Google mention that he enjoys dressing as a bear?”

“What?”

“You heard me. He was wearing a grizzly bear suit when I got there.”

“That does sound odd.” Clementine paused. “But did he say he’d help you with Dolce?”

“Yes. I had my first lesson today.” Anya used air quotes to emphasize the word lesson.

“Oh, great!” Clementine beamed. “What was it like?”

“He had me read the entire newspaper aloud to his two puppies.”

“The whole front page?” The smile on Clementine’s face dimmed, replaced with a look of confusion.

Join the club, Anya thought. “Every section, not just the front page. The whole paper. I almost lost my voice.”

“Hmm. What was he doing while you read the paper?”

“He was whittling. Whittling.” Anya shook her head. The entire episode sounded completely unbelievable, even to her own ears. And she’d actually been there. “Who does that?”

Beside her, Clementine’s shoulders shook with laughter. “I hear that guy from Nome who always drives around with a reindeer in the bed of his pickup truck likes to carve things out of sheep horns.”

“My point exactly,” Anya huffed.

It wasn’t the whittling. It wasn’t the mysterious, unexplained reading-to-the-dogs assignment. It wasn’t even the bear suit. It was all of it put together.

Brock Parker was one unusual package.

So why did her heart seem to kick into overdrive at the mere thought of him?

Clementine narrowed her gaze at her, as if trying to see inside her head. “What does he look like?”

Anya’s fingers slipped, and she dropped a stitch in the hat she was knitting.

Oops.

“Um,” she started, as her face flushed with warmth.

“I see.” Sue laughed. “He looks that good, huh?”

Anya hadn’t even realized Sue had been paying attention to their conversation. She wanted to crawl under the table and hide. Clearly that wasn’t an option, seeing as Sue and Clementine were watching her with great interest. Her fingers fumbled once more, and she dropped another stitch. Darn it. She’d never finish the hat at this rate.

She decided to go ahead and fess up. They’d find out eventually.

“He’s blond, blue-eyed and Nordic looking.” She cleared her throat. “Not that it matters.”

“Nordic looking?” Clementine lifted an inquisitive brow.

“You know, like a Viking or something.” Anya ignored the flush still simmering in her cheeks and focused intently on her knitting. “Like I said, it doesn’t make a bit of difference.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Sue said, tongue firmly planted in cheek.

Anya looked up from her tangle of yarn and sighed. “Seriously, you two. Other than what he can do for my dog, I have no interest in Brock Parker.”

In fact, things would probably be easier if he wasn’t so flawlessly handsome. Because in the end—no matter what they looked like—all men did the same thing. At least the ones Anya had known. They left.

“Seriously,” she repeated for emphasis. “You both know I don’t date.”

Clementine’s fingers stilled, and her yarn stopped moving. “Wait. We do?”

“Of course you do,” Anya said.

Clementine hadn’t yet moved to Aurora when Anya was dumped on national television, but Anya was certain she’d mentioned it to her during the course of their friendship.

“No, I don’t.” Clementine shook her head. “You don’t date? What on Earth does that mean?”

Okay, so maybe she hadn’t mentioned it. Although it was a pivotal moment in her life to be sure, it wasn’t exactly the sort of thing she revisited often. Or ever, really.

Anya sighed. “I had a rather ugly breakup a few years ago, that’s all.”

“How ugly?” Clementine frowned and glanced back and forth between Anya and Sue.

“It was televised,” Sue chimed in, much to Anya’s relief. She’d rather not be forced to tell the entire dreadful tale herself.

Clementine furrowed her brow. “How does a breakup end up on television?”

“I was dating my high school sweetheart, who was a champion skier. A downhill racer.”

“Speed Lawson,” Sue said.

“Speed?” Clementine snorted. “What kind of a name is Speed?”

“The kind for men who beat a hasty trail out of town when the opportunity arises.” Anya’s gaze bore into her knitting. Maybe if she concentrated on the in-and-out of her needles and the twisting of the yarn around her fingers, she could get through this with a modicum of dignity still intact.

“Is that what happened? He just up and left?” Clementine rested a hand on top of Anya’s.

“We’d been dating two years when the Olympic Trials came to Aurora. The night before his event, Speed told me he loved me and wanted us to build a life together.”

Anya still felt ridiculous when she thought about it—the night she’d poured her heart into that boy in a way only a girl who’d never known the love of a father could. And he’d thrown it away. For all the world to see.

“What happened?” Clementine cast a worried glance at Sue.

“He made the team as an alternate,” Sue said. “It was big news around here.”

“The biggest.” Anya nodded. “ESPN interviewed him afterward, right there on the mountain. They asked him about skiing, living in Alaska, the ordinary questions...then they wanted to know if he had a girlfriend or any plans for the future.”

“And what did he say?” Clementine lowered her voice to a near whisper.

Anya appreciated the gesture, but it didn’t matter. Everyone sitting at the table knew the story. Was there a soul in Aurora who didn’t? “He said, and I quote, ‘There’s no one special.’”

“Oh, Anya. He was young. Don’t you think they may have caught him off guard?” Clementine’s word echoed every desperate thought that had entered Anya’s head in the aftermath of the interview.

She’d stood right there, hurt and humiliated, with the rest of Speed’s hometown crowd and listened to him deny her very existence. She’d pretended that the tears streaming down her cheeks were a product of the cold Alaskan wind rather than the pain of her heart breaking. But she hadn’t fooled anyone, least of all herself.

Worse than that, in the instant he’d uttered those words—no one special—something inside her had turned hard and bitter. Just like her mother.

It was that dark thing she felt brewing inside that frightened her the most. So she’d done the only thing she knew to keep it at bay. She stayed as far away from men as she could.

“I never heard from him again,” Anya said tersely. She left out the part about the local media questioning her about Speed’s comments and the Yukon Reporter article that had called her Speed’s “broken-hearted hometown honey.” Clementine knew enough now to get the picture. “And that’s why I don’t date. Anyone. Most especially a hotshot like Brock Parker.”

“Well, I for one hope you give the lessons with Brock another chance.” Sue gave her shoulder a pat before rising and heading to help one of the knitters who seemed to be having trouble casting off.

“Me too.” Clementine nodded. “I’m sure he can help Dolce. There has to be a method to his madness.”

A method to his madness.

Anya turned the phrase over in her mind. He was mad all right. She just hoped there was a method involved. That’s what really mattered, not his looks.

The fact that those chiseled features of his made her stomach flip was an inconvenience she’d have to grow accustomed to.

That’s all.

* * *

Brock was forced to trudge through what he estimated to be two and a half feet of snow to get to his truck. He’d shoveled the sidewalk from his front door to the driveway late the night before, but by morning it was once again indistinguishable. Nothing but snow stretched out before him—an unspoiled blanket of white glittering in the morning sunshine.

Welcome to Alaska, he thought as he cranked the truck engine to life.

There was a time when Brock would have found it beautiful, before snow had become an enemy to be conquered. Sometimes he had to struggle to remember how it had felt back then—building a snowman on the first day of winter, snowball fights that left his fingers prickly and numb, sledding down the hill behind his elementary school, shouting out to his brother to be careful of the trees. His memories of childhood snow days were so tangled up with his memories of Drew that it was hard to separate them. Then Drew had disappeared. Taken right from his bedroom window, according to the police. The snow had kept on falling and, inch by inch, swallowed up any evidence that could lead to Drew’s whereabouts.

They’d never found Drew, never found who’d taken him. Unable to concentrate his rage and confusion onto an actual person, Brock had instead focused it all on the snow. He supposed in a way, he still did.

He maneuvered his truck through what passed for downtown in Aurora. Nestled between a lake—frozen completely over at the moment, of course—and the foot of the Chugach Mountain range, the hub of the small town appeared to be the Northern Lights Inn. Judging from the staggering number of cars in the parking lot, it was Aurora’s hotspot. This struck Brock as odd, considering the ski area boasted its own chalet-type quarters, complete with gingerbread trim and old-world, fairytale charm. He narrowed his gaze at the ordinary-looking hotel, wondering what the draw could possibly be, and turned onto the road leading to the tiny log cabin that served as the Ski Patrol headquarters.

The three full-time members of the Aurora Ski Patrol Unit were already waiting for him when he arrived. They sat around a sturdy wood table that was loaded down with bagels and coffee, grinning at him as if he were the answer to all the town’s prayers. Which he probably was.

Brock had never felt comfortable being the object of adoration. And no matter how many finds, no matter how large the number of people he’d saved, he still didn’t.

“Good morning,” he said and shifted from one booted foot to the other.

“Mr. Parker.” The man in the center rose. “I’m Cole Weston, senior member of the ski patrol. We’re delighted to have you. Welcome to Aurora.”

Brock nodded. He recognized Cole’s voice from their numerous telephone conversations. “Call me Brock. Please.”

“Of course.” Cole smiled and introduced him to the men on either side of him—Luke and Jackson, respectively. “Have a seat, please.”

Brock poured himself a cup of coffee and eyed it suspiciously before lowering himself into one of the chairs.

“So how do you like the snow?” Cole, unaware he’d asked a very loaded question, grinned and bobbed his head in the direction of the window where flurries swirled against the pane.

Brock blinked. How was he supposed to come up with an answer to that? He chose not to and took a sip of his coffee instead.

Not bad, he mused. Not bad at all.

Hands down, it was the best cup of coffee he’d had since leaving Seattle.

“So Brock, have you given much thought to what we discussed about making your position here in Aurora permanent?” Cole pushed the plate of bagels toward him.

Brock had to give him credit. Cole had certainly cut to the chase faster than most of the ski resorts where he’d done consultant work. Of those resorts, one hundred percent had offered him permanent positions at one time or another. They typically waited until they’d seen his work firsthand, though. Or at least until he’d finished his first cup of coffee.

“I have to be honest, Cole. Permanent relocation is not something I’m considering at this time.”

He swallowed, hoping his answer—which had been fine-tuned through years of practice—didn’t constitute a lie. Relocation implied that somewhere out there he had a permanent residence, which he most definitely didn’t. Brock didn’t do permanent.

“The offer still stands.” Cole’s gaze flitted briefly to Jackson and Luke, who both nodded their agreement. “We’re short-staffed here, and as you know, the mountains surrounding Aurora are made up of miles of avalanche terrain. We could really use your help. Permanently.”

There was that word again. Brock shrugged out of his parka. The small room was beginning to feel rather warm. “Don’t worry. I’ve brought with me two fine pups—Sherlock and Aspen—who are coming along nicely with their search and rescue training. They’ll both be staying here long term after I’ve gone. I’ll make sure everything is up and running before I leave. You have my promise on that.”

“Very well then.” Cole nodded grimly. He looked somewhat resigned, but not as much as Brock would have liked. Something told him he hadn’t heard the last of the offer.

Luke crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “How long do you estimate it will take to establish an avalanche rescue unit here before you go?”

“It depends. The dogs need a few months to become acclimated to the mountain, and the four of us will need to meet for training exercises daily. All in all, I’d guess you’ll be good to go in three or four months. Perhaps sooner.”

“Then it looks like we have three or four months to change your mind about staying.” Jackson reached for a bagel. “Once you’ve had a chance to familiarize yourself with the town, you might find that you like it here. Alaska is rather, ah, unique.”

“Yea, we’ve got our annual Reindeer Run coming up. That’s always a good time.” Luke grinned.

Don’t hold your breath.

Brock took another bite of his bagel to stop himself from saying it out loud. Aurora, Alaska, no matter how quaint or picturesque, surely couldn’t have more to offer than Banff, Canada, Mont-Tremblant, France, or Cortina, Italy—all places he’d lived in the past two years. And even if he did find something special here, it would probably make him all the more determined to leave.

Unbidden, the memory of Anya Petrova’s eyes flashed in Brock’s mind. That deep, welcoming violet filled him with a sudden rush of warmth.

He frowned and wondered what that was all about.