Alaskan Hero

Chapter Three

Anya ran her dishcloth in circles over the coffee bar as she peered at the screen of the computer she typically used for ringing up customers. Not so typically, the monitor was now fixed on an image of Brock Parker. Minus the bear suit and standing on a mountaintop overlooking the Swiss Alps, he looked every inch the hero that countless websites professed him to be.

She took in his broad shoulders, apparently strong enough to dig through several feet of hard-packed avalanche snow, if the internet was to be trusted, and tried not to gape. When Brock wasn’t whittling or reading aloud to his dogs, he was apparently traveling the world and saving people’s lives. Anya was having trouble reconciling this information with the man she’d met the night before. He’d rarely even looked her in the eyes. She’d noticed that he seemed to prefer focusing on her forehead, hardly a habit that bespoke of bravery.

“You missed a spot,” a voice called from somewhere beside her.

She tore her gaze from the computer and aimed it at the counter, shiny as a mirror after all her absent-minded polishing. Perfect...except hers wasn’t the only face she saw looking back at her in the reflection. Brock’s heroic image was right there across from hers.

He sent her an upside down wink.

Anya’s head flew up, and nearly as quickly, her fingers flew across the computer keyboard. She banged on the keys, willing a different website to flash on the screen. She didn’t care which one, so long as it wasn’t devoted to Brock.

Why, oh why did I take Clementine’s advice and Google Brock?

“Were you just Googling me?”

Anya glanced over at him. His lips were curved into a rare smile, making him even more pleasant to look at. Her knees grew wobbly, which she found more than a little irritating. “No.”

“No?” He tilted his head.

“No,” she said, a little too emphatically.

“Are you sure? Because that guy looked familiar.”

She waved toward the screen, which had somehow landed on the Northern Light Inn’s homepage. Thank You, Jesus.

“You mean him?” She pointed at the website’s picture of a stuffed grizzly bear, one of the many examples of Alaska’s finest taxidermy that graced the hotel lobby. “I guess I do see the resemblance.”

“Good save.” He smiled again and glanced at the actual bear, frozen in a threatening pose on its hind legs and looming beside the coffee bar. “But I know what I saw.”

She chose to ignore this comment. Because really, what choice did she have? “What brings you here this afternoon, Brock?”

He paused, taking in the coffee bar with its smooth burled wood counter, the refurbished brushed-nickel Gaggia espresso machine—Anya’s pride and joy—and, last but not least, the stuffed bison head that watched over everything from its place overhead. Anya had taken to calling him Spiderman because of the copious amount of cobwebs she was often forced to untangle from his shaggy coat.

Brock’s gaze snagged on Spiderman for a beat, then returned to its usual place of concentration—Anya’s forehead. “I just came from a meeting up on the mountain where I had a fantastic cup of coffee. Cole Weston told me it came from here.”

Anya breathed a sigh of relief, pleased the topic of conversation had moved away from her Google search and onto a more mundane topic. Coffee. “Alaska Klondike Roast. Yep, he came by earlier and picked up a box. It’s a local favorite.”

“You brewed it?” He narrowed his gaze at her.

“Yes. Why do you look so surprised?”

“No reason.” He looked longingly at the grinder, which just so happened to be filled with Alaska Klondike beans. “It was just really good coffee. The best I’ve had in a while.”

Anya’s cheeks grew warm. Pathetic. People came in here all the time complimenting her coffee and she didn’t get all starry-eyed. It was coffee, not rocket science. Why should it be any different with Brock? Just because he was a hero and had that perfect face...

Ugh. Get a clue. He’s just another man. Picture him in that crazy bear suit.

“Would you like a cup?” she asked.

“That would be great.”

She poured him a to-go cup, hoping he would get the hint and leave. He took a sip but seemed in no hurry to go.

Super.

Anya went to work washing the tiny collection of coffee cups that had accumulated in the sink behind the counter. She was contemplating washing them again, just to have something nonmale and nonheroic to focus on, when Brock spoke up.

“Is that a flyer for the Reindeer Run?” He pointed to the stack of brochures at the end of the coffee bar.

“Yes. Why?” She bit back a smirk. “Are you thinking of participating?”

He shrugged. “I doubt it. Some of the guys at the ski patrol were talking about it this morning, so the name caught my eye.”

“You should do it. Actually, now that I think about it, the Reindeer Run is right up your alley.”

He gave her a questioning glance. “Why do you say that?”

“People get really into it. They dress up, wear nutty hats.” Anya scrunched her brow in faux concentration. “Call me crazy, but I get the impression that’s your sort of thing.”

Brock leveled his gaze at her over his cup of coffee—actually looked her right in the eye this time. There was a subtle smile in his eyes, even if it didn’t make an appearance on his mouth.

Upon being fully appraised by those glacial blue eyes at last, Anya’s first instinct was to look away. She scrubbed at an invisible spot on the counter.

She could feel him watching her. It was unsettling. Unsettling in a weak-in-the-knees sort of manner that Anya was in no way accustomed to dealing with. Even Speed had never made her feel this way—all nervous and fluttery.

After what felt like an eternity, Brock stood. “I’ll see you later this evening for your training lesson. Thank you for the coffee.”

“Yes, of course.” She took the bills he slid across the counter.

“Keep the change.”

“Thank you.” She folded the money and put it in the pocket of her apron. “Very much.”

And as she watched him walk away, she told herself that the bittersweet tug of disappointment she felt had nothing to do with the fact that he’d gone.

“Who was that? I haven’t seen him around town before.” The voice of Zoey Hathaway, the coffee bar’s afternoon barista, dragged Anya away from her thoughts.

Anya blinked at Zoey. She hadn’t even noticed her arrival.

“Zoey.” She smiled. “Hi. Is it time for your shift already?”

“I’m a little early. This morning was really cloudy, and you know what that means.” Zoey pulled a face.

When Zoey wasn’t behind the coffee bar at the Northern Lights Inn, she could usually be found flying high above the hotel. She was an aspiring pilot. Unfortunately, the turbulent Alaskan weather made it difficult for her to accumulate the necessary flying hours to get her license.

“Your lesson was postponed again?” Anya asked.

“Yep. I suppose it’s just as well, though. I needed to get some work done for the committee I’m heading up at church.” Zoey sighed and cast a glance toward the revolving doors where Brock had just disappeared. “Who was that again?”

“Brock Parker.” Just your average hero. Anya swallowed. “He’s new in town.”

“Oh, I see.” Zoey nodded, her gaze lingering on the doorway.

“You’re heading up a committee at church?” Anya asked, eager to change the subject to something other than Brock.

“Yes. We have that big service project coming up—the one to help out widows in the area. I’m head of the committee. I was kind of hoping you might want to be involved?” Zoey slipped an apron over her head and wrapped its ties around her waist.

“The service project. Of course.” Anya remembered hearing something about it at knitting group. “Sure, I can help out. I’ve actually been meaning to talk to someone about that. Is it too late to add a name to the list?”

“Absolutely not. We can use all the help we can get.”

“Oh no, this wouldn’t be a helper. I was wondering about adding a name to the list of women who need help.” Anya’s stomach churned at the prospect, but she ignored it.

“It’s not too late for that either. We still have a few weeks to plan everything.” Zoey pulled a small notepad from the back pocket of her jeans. “Okay, I just need the name to add to the list.”

Anya swallowed. Could she really do this? “Her name is Kirima Kunayak. She’s my mother.”

* * *

“What about purple? You should knit something purple. It would look so pretty with your eyes.” Sue held a skein of amethyst yarn up to Anya’s cheek and nodded her approval. “Gorgeous. Clementine, come here and take a look.”

Clementine crossed the center aisle of the yarn store, balancing three balls of wool in each hand. It would take Anya a year to do something with that much yarn. Either Clementine had been practicing her knitting more frequently than Anya had, or she was about to take up juggling.

“Yes. Definitely.” Clementine inspected the purple skein. “And look—it’s chunky. You could probably make a scarf out of this in no time.”

“No, thank you.” Chunky or not, there would be no purple scarf in Anya’s future. The last thing she wanted to do was draw attention to her eyes.

With obvious reluctance, Sue put the yarn back in its cubby on the wall of the cozy yarn store. “It’s awfully pretty. Are you sure?”

“As sure as I am that decaf is a crime against humanity.” Decaf. She shuddered. Really, why bother?

Clementine lifted a brow at Sue. “She’s sure.”

“I gathered.” Sue laughed.

“What are you going to make now that your hat for knitting group is finished? You can’t stop knitting altogether or you might forget how.” Clementine examined her six balls of yarn. All were various shades of pink, yet she was staring at them as if the choice mystified her.

“I’m not sure yet. What about you?” Anya bit back a smile. “I thought you were going to make something for Ben.”

“I am.” Clementine nodded.

“Then maybe you should steer clear of pink.” Anya plucked the six balls of yarn from Clementine’s hands and tossed them back where they belonged. She’d extract a thank you out of Clementine’s husband at a later date.

“Point taken.” Clementine tore her gaze from the wall of pink cubbies and sighed.

“This is nice. And look—it’s on sale.” Sue fished a bright ball of lime green out of the bargain bin, which was actually a white wicker basket that perfectly showcased the cheery hodgepodge of colors buried inside.

“Now that I like.” Anya held out her hand and caught the ball of yarn as Sue tossed it to her.

“Better than decaf?” Clementine asked, her lips quirking into a wry smile.

“Much.”

“There’s only one ball of it, though. And it’s awfully small. You might not be able to finish whatever you decide to start,” Sue said.

“I’m sure I can come up with something.” Anya clutched the lime-green yarn in her hand and picked a few more balls from the bargain bin—strawberry red, turquoise and tangerine.

Clementine looked on with what appeared to be mounting horror. “I hope you’re not planning on using all of those together. That would make one ugly hat.”

“Maybe.” Anya shrugged. “You never know.”

“Wow. Just...wow.”

“Anya, is everything okay?” Sue wrapped an arm around Anya’s shoulders. “You seem quiet. And Clementine’s right—all those yarns would make an awfully odd-looking hat. Should we be worried about you?”

Anya couldn’t help but laugh at the crazy assortment of colors in her arms. “I suppose I might be a little distracted. I added my mom’s name to the list for the church service project today.”

“That was thoughtful,” Clementine said.

“I’m glad you think so.” Anya blew out a breath. “But I doubt my mother will see it that way.”

Sue cocked her head. “No?”

“No. Most definitely not.” Anya almost wished she could turn back time to this morning. Then she wouldn’t be obsessing over adding her mother’s name to this list.

And maybe you wouldn’t get caught Googling Brock.

There he was again. Brock. Invading her thoughts. He was proving to be quite the irritation, even when he wasn’t around.

“I should probably get going. There are two puppies at Brock Parker’s house that are probably waiting for me to read them the paper. Or War & Peace maybe.” Anya rolled her eyes.

Clementine led the way as their trio headed toward the register. “I don’t understand. Isn’t the whole point to help people? What could your mother have against someone helping her?”

“She’ll find something. Trust me.” Anya lined up her balls of yarn on the counter, catching the lime-green ball just as it was about to roll off the edge.

“If you’re really worried about it, I could talk to the committee. We could get her name taken off the list and it would be no problem,” Sue said.

She had a point. Zoey was heading up the committee. Anya could just ask her to remove her mother’s name from the list, and she wouldn’t have a thing to worry about. Other than the pesky matter of the six inches of ice that had accumulated on her mother’s roof.

“No. Believe me, she could use the help.” Anya shook her head. “Convincing my mother just how much she needs it is the tricky part.”

Both the Dolce problem and what to do with the random assortment of yarn she’d just purchased paled in comparison.

Chapter Four

“Aspen and Sherlock are all caught up on the local happenings. Now what?” Anya handed the newspaper to Brock. Thankfully, he’d asked her to keep an eye on the clock this go-round. Just as she suspected, thirty minutes was enough time to cover most everything that went on in Aurora.

It was also apparently enough time for Brock to turn yesterday’s smooth sphere of wood into something vaguely resembling a dog.

“Oh, wow.” She plucked the tiny figure off the workbench, where it sat amid a small pile of wood shavings. “This is really great. Where did you learn how to do this?”

“My grandfather taught me years ago. It kind of stuck with me.” He frowned slightly as he watched her handle the little wooden dog, as if he himself was surprised at what he’d accomplished while she read to the pups.

Anya was surprised herself—surprised he’d actually answered her question. He was a man of few words, after all. She’d finally broken down and asked him about the puppies’ names this time, too, because he’d never mentioned them during her first “lesson.”

What didn’t surprise her, however, was the pair of antlers protruding from the sides of Brock’s baseball cap. They were soft and squishy, crafted of brown felt and ridiculously oversized. The get-up wasn’t quite as elaborate as his bear suit, but it made a statement nonetheless.

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.”

“I see.” Cole nodded and closed the book he’d been reading. Small. Black leather. Brock recognized it at once as a Bible. “He’s a good size for that, I suppose.”

“That’s one of the reasons I use this breed—the Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever. They’re trainable and sturdy, yet compact enough to make convenient search dogs.” Brock hung his backpack on a hook by the door to the cabin and sank into a chair at the table opposite Cole.

“How long have you had him?”

“Since he was eight weeks old. His littermate too—Sherlock. He’s not quite ready to start training up here.” But he would be soon, if the way he was responding to Anya was any indication. “I have a breeder in Washington who I work with to select pups that look like good candidates for search and rescue dogs.”

“That must be hard.” With Aspen flopped belly-up at his feet, Cole poured Brock a cup of coffee from the box in the center of the table and slid it toward him.

As soon as he took the first sip, Brock knew it was from Anya’s coffee bar. It was far too good to come from anywhere else. He was beginning to understand why the Northern Lights Inn was such a draw. “What’s hard?”

Cole shrugged and nudged Aspen with his foot. “Training the dogs as pups and then leaving them behind.”

“I suppose.” Brock frowned. He’d never thought of it as leaving the dogs behind. Sure, it was hard sometimes. He spent almost every waking hour with the pups. Forming attachments was unavoidable. But it was his job, what he did best—train the search dogs and put them to work in the places where they were most needed.