The Search

One

On a chilly morning in February with a misty rain shuttering the windows, Devin and Rosie Cauldwell made slow, sleepy love. It was day three of their week’s vacation—and month two of their attempt to conceive a second child. Their three-year-old son, Hugh, was the result of a long weekend on Orcas Island in the San Juans and—Rosie was convinced—a rainy afternoon and a bottle of Pinot Noir.

They hoped to repeat their success with a return visit to Orcas, and happily applied themselves to the mission at hand while their toddler slept with his beloved Wubby in the next room.

It was too early in the day for wine, but Rosie took the quiet rain as an omen.

When they were snuggled up together, loose and warm from sex, she smiled.

“Who had the best idea ever?”

Devin gave her ass an easy squeeze. “You did.”

“Hang on, because I just had another one.”

“I think I need a few minutes, first.”

She laughed, rolled and propped herself on his chest to grin at him. “Get your mind off sex, Sleazy.”

“I think I need a few minutes for that, too.”

“Pancakes. We need pancakes. Rainy morning, our cozy little house. Definitely calls for pancakes.”

He squinted at her. “Who’s making them?”

“Let the fates decide.”

She scooted up, and in a long-standing Cauldwell family tradition they let the balance hang on Rock, Paper, Scissors—best two out of three.

“Damn it,” she muttered when he crushed her scissors with his rock.

“Superior skill wins out.”

“My ass. But fair’s fair—and I have to pee anyway.” She bent down to give him a smacking kiss, then jumped out of bed. “I love vacation,” she said as she dashed into the bathroom.

She especially loved this vacation, she thought, with her two handsome men. If the rain kept up, or got heavier, they’d play games inside. But if it let up, maybe they’d strap Hugh in the carrier and take a bike ride, or just go for a long hike.

Hugh just loved it here, loved the birds, the lake, the deer they’d spotted and of course the rabbits—all brothers to his faithful Wubby.

And maybe he’d have a brother of his own in the fall. She was ovulating—not that she was obsessing about getting pregnant. But counting days wasn’t obsessing, she thought as she caught her sleep- and sex-mussed hair back in a band. It was just being self-aware.

She grabbed a sweatshirt and some flannel pants, glanced back at Devin, who’d gone back to snoozing.

She really thought they’d hit the money shot.

Delighted with the idea, she pulled on heavy socks, then glanced at the watch she’d left on the dresser.

“Gosh, it’s after eight. We must’ve worn Hugh out last night for him to sleep this late.”

“Probably the rain,” Devin mumbled.

“Yeah, probably.”

Still, she turned out of their room for his, as she did every morning, at home or away. She moved quietly, content to let him sleep—a bonus if she could grab her first cup of coffee before she heard the first Mommy of the day.

She peeked in, expecting to find him curled up with his stuffed bunny. The empty bed didn’t bring panic. He might’ve gotten up to pee, just as she had. He’d gotten so good with his potty training.

Even when she didn’t find him in the little bathroom off the hall, she didn’t panic. Since he was habitually an early riser, they’d encouraged him to play for a bit before waking them. She usually heard him, talking to his toys or running his cars, but she’d been a little distracted having vacation sex.

God, she thought as she started downstairs, what if he’d looked in when they were doing it? No, he’d have walked right in and asked what game they were playing.

With a half laugh, she turned into the pretty living room, expecting to see her little boy on the floor surrounded by the toys of his choice.

When she didn’t, the first fingers of unease tickled up her throat.

She called his name, moving quickly now, sliding a little on the hardwood floors in her socks.

Panic struck, a knife in the belly.

The kitchen door stood wide open.

Shortly after nine, Fiona Bristow pulled up at the pretty vacation house in the heart of Moran State Park. Rain fizzed along the ground more than pattered, but its steadiness promised sloppy tracking. She signaled her partner to stay in the truck, then got out to approach one of the local deputies.

“Davey.”

“Hey, Fee. You got here fast.”

“I didn’t have far to go. The others are on their way. Are we using the house for base camp or do you want us to set up?”

“We’re using it. You’ll want to talk to the parents, but I’ll give you the basics. Hugh Cauldwell, age three, blond and blue. Last seen wearing Spider-Man pajamas.”

Fiona saw his mouth tighten a little. Davey had a boy about the same age as Hugh, and she imagined he had a pair of Spider-Man pj’s, too.

“The mother first noticed he was missing at about eight-fifteen,” Davey continued. “Found the back door open. No visible signs of forced entry or an intruder. The mother alerted the father. They called it in right away, and they ran around, calling for him, looking in the immediate area.”

And tracked up the place, Fiona mused. But who could blame them?

“We did a house-and-grounds search, to make sure he wasn’t just hiding.” Davey turned back to Fiona with rain dripping off the bill of his cap. “He’s not in the house, and his mother says he has his stuffed bunny with him. He sleeps with it, carts it around habitually. We’ve got rangers on the search, McMahon and Matt are out there,” he added, referring to the sheriff and a young deputy.

“McMahon cleared me to call in your unit, and assigned me to base.”

“We’ll set up and get started. I’d like to interview the parents now, if that’s good for you.”

He gestured toward the house. “They’re scared, as you’d expect—and they want to go out and look for him. You might help me talk them down from that.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Thinking of that, she went back to the truck, opened the door for her partner. Peck hopped out and walked with her and Davey to the house.

At Davey’s nod, Fiona crossed to the couple, who rose from their huddle on the couch. The woman clutched a little red fire engine.

“Mr. and Mrs. Cauldwell, I’m Fiona Bristow with Canine Search and Rescue. This is Peck.” She laid a hand on the head of the chocolate Lab. “The rest of my unit’s on the way. We’re going to help look for Hugh.”

“You need to go. You need to go right now. He’s only three.”

“Yes, ma’am. The rest of my unit will be here any minute. It would help us if I get some information first.”

“We told the police and the rangers everything.” Devin looked toward the window. “I need to go out there, look for him. We’re wasting time here.”

“Believe me, Mr. Cauldwell, the police and the rangers are doing everything they can to find Hugh. They called us because finding him is everyone’s priority. We’re trained, and your little boy is our only focus now. We’re going to coordinate with the police and the park rangers. I need to make sure I have all the information so we optimize our resources. You realized Hugh was missing about eight-fifteen, is that right?”

Tears swam fresh into Rosie’s eyes. “I should’ve checked on him earlier. He hardly ever sleeps past seven. I should’ve—”

“Mrs. Cauldwell... Rosie,” Fiona corrected, using the first name to comfort. “You don’t want to blame yourself. Little boys are curious, aren’t they? Has Hugh ever left the house by himself before?”

“Never, never. I thought he’d come down to play, then I couldn’t find him, and I went back to the kitchen. And the door... the door was open. Wide open. And I couldn’t find him.”

“Maybe you could show me.” Fiona signaled to Peck to follow. “He’s wearing his pajamas?”

“Spider-Man. He’ll be cold, and wet, and scared.” Her shoulders shook as they moved back to the kitchen. “I don’t understand what you can do that the police can’t.”

“We’re another resource, and Peck? He’s trained for this. He’s been on dozens of searches.”

Rosie swiped tears off her cheeks. “Hugh likes dogs. He likes animals. If the dog barks, maybe Hugh will hear and come back.”

Fiona said nothing, but opened the back door, then squatted down to take in the view from the level of a three-year-old boy. Likes animals. “I bet you can see a lot of wildlife around here. Deer, fox, rabbits.”

“Yes. Yes. It’s so different from Seattle. He loves watching out the windows, or from the deck. And we’ve taken hikes and bike rides.”

“Is Hugh shy?”

“No. Oh no, he’s adventurous and sociable. Fearless. Oh God.”

Instinctively Fiona put an arm around Rosie’s shaking shoulders. “Rosie, I’m going to set up here in the kitchen, if that’s okay. What I need you to do is to get me five things Hugh wore recently. Yesterday’s socks, underwear, shirt, like that. Five small items of clothing. Try not to handle them. Put them in these.”

Fiona took plastic bags from her kit.

“We’re a unit of five. Five handlers, five dogs. We’ll each use something of Hugh’s to give the dogs his scent.”

“They... they track him?”

Easier to agree than to try to explain air-scenting, scent cones, skin rafts. The boy had already been gone more than an hour. “That’s right. Does he have a favorite treat? Something he likes especially, something you might give him when he’s been good?”

“You mean like...” Pushing at her hair, Rosie looked around blankly. “He loves gummy worms.”

“Great. Do you have any?”

“I... yes.”

“If you could get the clothes and the worms,” Fiona said with a smile. “I’m going to set up. I hear my unit, so I’m going to set up.”

“Okay. Okay. Please... He’s just three.”

Rosie dashed out. Fiona shared a brief look with Peck, then began to set up operations.

As her team came in, human and canine, she briefed them and began to assign search sectors while poring over her maps. She knew the area, and knew it well.

A paradise, she thought, for those looking for serenity, scenery, an escape from streets and traffic, buildings, crowds. And for a lost little boy, a world filled with hazards. Creeks, lakes, rocks.

More than thirty miles of foot trails, she thought, over five thousand acres of forest to swallow up a three-year-old and his stuffed rabbit.

“We’ve got a heavy drizzle, so we’ll keep the search grids close and cover this area.” As field OL—operational leader—Fiona outlined their sections on the map while Davey listed data on a large whiteboard. “We’ll overlap some with the other teams, but let’s keep good communications so we don’t step on our own feet.”

“He’s going to be wet and chilled by now.” Meg Greene, mother of two and recent grandmother, looked at her husband, Chuck. “Poor little guy.”

“And a kid that age? He’s got no sense of direction. He’ll wander anywhere.” James Hutton frowned as he checked his radio.

“He might tire out, just curl up and sleep.” Lori Dyson nodded toward her German shepherd, Pip. “He might not hear the searchers calling for him, but our guys will sniff him out.”

“That’s the plan. Everyone has their coordinates? Radios checked, packs checked? Make sure you set your compass bearings. With Mai in emergency surgery, Davey’s solo base OL, so we’ll check in with him as we cover our sectors.”

She stopped as the Cauldwells came back in.

“I have...” Rosie’s chin wobbled. “I have what you asked for.”

“That’s great.” Fiona crossed to her, then laid her hands on the terrified mother’s shoulders. “You hold good thoughts. Everyone out there has only one thing to do, one thing on their mind: find Hugh and bring him home.”

She took the bags, passed them out to her unit. “Okay, let’s go get him.”

With the others, she walked outside, hitched on her pack. Peck stood by her side, the slight quiver in his body the only sign he was anxious to get started. She and the others spread out to take their assigned sectors, and like the rest of her unit, she set her compass bearing.

She opened the bag holding a little sock, offered it to Peck’s nose.

“This is Hugh. It’s Hugh. Hugh’s just a little boy, Peck. This is Hugh.”

He sniffed enthusiastically—a dog who knew his job. He glanced up at her, sniffed again, then looked deep into her eyes, body quivering as if to say, Okay, I’ve got it! Let’s move!

“Find Hugh.” She added her hand signal, and Peck lifted his nose in the air. “Let’s find Hugh!”

She waited, watching him scent and circle, let him take the lead as he prowled and paced. The thin, steady rain posed an obstacle, but Peck worked well in the rain.

She remained where she was, giving him verbal encouragement as he tracked the air and the wet pattered on the bright yellow of her wind-breaker.

When he moved east, she followed him into the thickening trees.

At five, Peck was a vet, a seventy-pound chocolate Lab—strong, smart and tireless. He would, Fiona knew, search for hours in any conditions, over any terrain, for the living or for the dead. She had only to ask it of him.

Together, they moved through deep forest, over ground soft and soggy with needles shed from the towering Douglas firs and old-growth cedars, over and around clumps of mushrooms and nurse logs coated with rich green moss, through brambles edgy with thorn. While they searched, Fiona kept an eye on her partner’s body language, made note of landmarks, checked her compass. Every few minutes, Peck glanced back to let her know he was on the case.

“Find Hugh. Let’s find Hugh, Peck.”

He alerted, showing interest in a patch of ground around a nurse log. “Got something, do you? That’s good. Good boy.” She flagged the alert first with bright blue tape, then stood with him, scanning the area, calling Hugh’s name. Then closing her eyes to listen.

All she heard was the soft sizzle of rain and the whisper of wind through the trees.

When he nudged her, Fiona took the sock out of her pocket, opened the bag so Peck could refresh the scent.

“Find Hugh,” she repeated. “Let’s find Hugh.”

He moved off again, and in her sturdy boots, Fiona stepped over the log and followed. When Peck angled south, she called her new position in to base, checked in with her team members.

The kid had been out for a minimum of two hours, she thought. A lifetime for worried parents.

But toddlers didn’t have any real sense of time. Children of his age were very mobile, she mused, and didn’t always understand the concept of being lost. They wandered, distracted by sights and sounds, and had considerable endurance, so it might be hours of that wandering before Hugh tired out and realized he wanted his mother.

She watched a rabbit skitter away into the brush. Peck had too much dignity to do more than spare it a passing glance.

But a little boy? Fiona thought. One who loved his “Wubby,” who enjoyed animals? One his mother said was fascinated by the forest? Wouldn’t he want to try to catch it, probably hoping to play with it? He’d try, wouldn’t he, to follow it? City boy, she thought, enchanted with the woods, the wildlife, the other of it all.

How could he resist?

She understood it, the magic of it. She’d been a city girl once herself, charmed and hypnotized by the green shadows, the dance of light, the sheer vastness of trees and hills and sea.

A child could so easily lose himself in the acres and acres of parkland.

He’s cold, she thought. Hungry now and scared. He wants his mother.

When the rain increased, they continued on, the tireless dog, the tall woman in rough pants and rougher boots. Her tail of pale red hair hung in a wet rope down her back, while lake-blue eyes searched the gloom.

When Peck angled again, heading down a winding slope, she drew a picture in her mind. Less than a quarter of a mile farther, if they continued in this direction, they’d come to the creek that marked the southeast border of her sector. Chuck and his Quirk searched the other side. Fast water in the creek this time of year, she thought, cold and fast, the verges slippery with moss and rain.

She hoped the little guy hadn’t gone too close or, worse, tried to cross it.

And the wind was changing, she realized. Goddamn it. They’d adjust. She’d refresh the scent again, give Peck a quick water break. They’d nearly clocked two hours in the field, and though Peck had alerted strongly three times, she’d yet to see a sign of the boy—a bit of cloth on a bramble, a print in the softened ground. She’d flagged the alerts in blue, used orange tape to mark their progress and knew they’d cross-tracked once or twice.

Check in with Chuck, she decided. If Peck’s on the scent and the kid crossed the creek...

She didn’t allow herself to think fell in. Not yet.

Even as she reached for her radio, Peck alerted again. This time he broke into a run, shooting her the briefest of glances over his shoulder.

And she saw the light in his eyes.

“Hugh!” She lifted her voice over the now pounding rain and whistling wind.

She didn’t hear the boy, but she heard Peck’s three quick barks.

Like the dog, Fiona broke into a run.

She skidded a little as she rounded the turn on the downward slope.

And she saw near the banks of the busy creek—a bit too near for her peace of mind—a very wet little boy sprawled on the ground with his arms full of dog.

“Hey, Hugh, hi.” She crossed the distance quickly, squatted down, pulling off her pack as she went. “I’m Fiona, and this is Peck.”

“Doggie.” He wept it into Peck’s fur. “Doggie.”

“He’s a good doggie. He’s the best doggie ever.”

As Peck thumped his tail in agreement, Fiona pulled a space blanket out of her pack. “I’m going to wrap you up—and Wubby, too. Is that Wubby?”

“Wubby fell down.”

“So I see. It’s okay. We’ll get you both warm, okay? Did you hurt yourself ? Uh-oh.”

She said it cheerfully as she draped the blanket over his shoulders and saw the mud and blood on his feet. “Ouch, huh? We’re going to fix you all up.”

His arms still around Peck, Hugh turned his cheek and sent Fiona a pitiful, bottom-lip-wobbling look. “I want Mommy.”

“I bet you do. We’re going to take you to Mommy, me and Peck. Here, look what Mommy sent you.” She pulled out the little bag of gummy worms.

“Bad boy,” Hugh said, but he eyed the candy with interest while he clung to Peck.

“Mommy’s not mad. Daddy’s not either. Here you go.” She gave him the bag, pulled out her radio. When Hugh offered a worm to Peck, Peck gave Fiona a sidelong glance.

Can I? Huh? Can I?

“Go ahead—and say thank you.”

Peck took the candy delicately from the boy, gulped it down, then thanked him with a sloppy kiss that made Hugh giggle.

With that sound warming her heart, Fiona contacted base.

“We’ve got him. Safe and sound. Tell Mom he’s eating his gummy worms and we’ll be on our way home.” She winked at Hugh, who fed the filthy and wet stuffed rabbit, then popped the same candy into his own mouth. “He’s got some minor cuts and scrapes, he’s wet, but he’s alert. Over.”

“Copy that. Good work, Fee. Do you need help? Over.”

“We’ve got it. Heading in. I’ll keep you updated. Over and out.”

“Better wash those down,” she suggested, and offered Hugh her canteen.

“Whazit?”

“It’s just water.”

“I like juice.”

“We’ll make sure you get some when we get back. Drink a little, okay?”

He did what he was told, sniffling. “I peed outside, like Daddy showed me. Not in my pants.”

She grinned at him and thought of Peck’s strong alerts. “You did good. How about a piggyback ride?”

As they had at the sight of the candy, his eyes brightened. “Okay.”

She wrapped the blanket securely around him, then turned so he could climb onto her back. “You call me Fee. If you need something, you just say, Fee, I need or I want.”

“Doggie.”

“He’s coming, too. He’ll lead the way.” From her crouch she rubbed Peck, hugged him hard. “Good dog, Peck. Good dog. Return!”

With the pack slung over her shoulder and the boy on her back, the three of them began the hike out of the woods.

“Did you open the door by yourself, Hugh?”

“Bad boy,” he murmured.

Well, yeah, she thought, but who wasn’t bad now and then? “What did you see out the window?”

“Wubbies. Wubby said let’s go see the wubbies.”

“Uh-huh.” Smart kid, she thought. Blame it on the rabbit.

Hugh began to chatter then, so fast and in the toddlerese that defeated her on every third word. But she got the gist.

Mommy and Daddy sleeping, bunnies out the window, what could you do? Then, if she interpreted correctly, the house disappeared and he couldn’t find it. Mommy didn’t come when he called, and he was going to get a time-out. He hated time-outs.

She got the picture because even saying “time-out” made him cry with his face pressed against her back.

“Well, if you get one, I think Wubby needs one, too. Look, hey, Hugh, look. It’s Bambi and his mom.”

He lifted his head, still sniffling. Then tears were forgotten as he squealed at the sight of the fawn and doe. Then he sighed, laid his head on her shoulder when she boosted him up a bit. “I getting hungry.”

“I guess you are. You’ve had a really big adventure.” She managed to dig a power bar out of her pack.

It took less time to hike out than it had to search through, but by the time the trees began to thin the boy weighed like a stone on her back.

Revived, rested, fascinated with everything, Hugh talked nonstop. Amused, Fiona let him ramble and dreamed of a vat of coffee, an enormous burger and a gallon bucket of fries.

When she spotted the house through the trees, she dug out another gear and quickened her pace. They’d barely cleared the line when Rosie and Devin ran out of the house.

Fiona crouched. “Off you go, Hugh. Run to Mommy.”

She stayed down, slung her arm around Peck, whose entire body wagged with joy.

“Yeah,” she murmured to him as Devin beat his wife by a couple lopes and snatched Hugh up. Then the three of them were twined together in a tangle of limbs and tears. “Yeah, it’s a good day. You’re the man, Peck.”

With her son safe in her arms, Rosie hurried toward the house. Devin broke away to walk unsteadily to Fiona.

“Thank you. I don’t know how to...”

“You’re welcome. He’s a great kid.”

“He’s... everything. Thank you so much.” As his eyes filled, Devin wrapped his arms around Fiona and, much as Hugh had, dropped his head on her shoulder. “I can’t tell you.”

“You don’t have to.” Her own eyes stung as she patted his back. “Peck found him. He’s the one. He’d be pleased if you shook his hand.”

“Oh.” Devin scrubbed at his face, drew in a couple steadying breaths. “Thank you, Peck. Thank you.” He crouched, offered his hand.

Peck smiled as dogs do and placed his paw in Devin’s hand.

“Can I... can I hug him?”

“He’d love it.”

On a deep, shuddering sigh, Devin hugged Peck’s neck, pressed his face to the fur. Over the man’s shoulder, Peck sent Fiona a twinkling look.

Wasn’t that fun? he seemed to say. Can we do it again?

Two

After debriefing, Fiona drove home while Peck sprawled in the back for a quick power nap. He’d earned it, she thought, just as she’d earned the burger she was going to make herself and devour while she transcribed the log onto her computer.

She needed to give Sylvia a call, tell her stepmother they’d found the kid and she wouldn’t need her to fill in for the afternoon classes after all.

Of course, now that the hard work was done, Fiona thought, the rain decided to back off. Already she could see a few breaks of blue in the gray.

Hot coffee, she decided, hot shower, lunch and paperwork, and with some luck she’d have dry weather for the afternoon’s schedule.

As she drove out of the park, she caught the faint glimmer of a rainbow over the rain-churned sound. A good sign, she decided—maybe even a portent of things to come. A few years before, her life had been like the rain—dull and gray and dreary. The island had been her break in the clouds, and her decision to settle there her chance for rainbows.

“Got what I need now,” she murmured. “And if there’s more, well, we’ll just see.”

She turned off the snaking road onto her bumpy drive. Recognizing the change in motion, Peck gave a snort and scrambled up to sit. His tail thumped the seat as they rattled over the narrow bridge spanning her skinny, bubbling stream. When the house came into view, the tail picked up in rhythm and he gave a happy two-note bark.

Her doll-sized cabin, shingled in cedar, generous with windows, grew out of her pretty chunk of forest and field. The yard sprawled and sloped, and held what she thought of as training zones. The sliding boards, teeter-totters, ladders and platforms, tunnels and pass-throughs ranged with benches, tire swings and ramps gave most the impression of a woodsy play area for kids.

Not that far off, Fiona thought. The kids just had four legs.

The other two of her three kids stood on the covered front porch, tails wagging, feet dancing. One of the best things about dogs, to Fiona’s mind, was their absolute joy in welcoming you home, whether you’d been gone for five minutes or five days. There lay unconditional and boundless love.

She parked, and her car was immediately surrounded by canine delight while, inside, Peck wiggled in anticipation of reunion with his best pals.

She stepped out to nuzzling snouts and wagging tails. “Hi, boys.” Ruffling fur, she angled to open the back door. Peck leaped out so the lovefest could begin.

There was sniffing, happy grumbling, body bumping, then the race and chase. While she retrieved her pack, the three dogs charged away, zipping in circles and zigzags before charging back to her.

Always ready to play, she mused as three pairs of eyes stared up at her with hopeful gleams.

“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 re turn.

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?”

“That’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.

While they rolled, batted and sniffed, Simon wondered if he could borrow one of them. Rent one, he considered. Like a babysitter.

Since the cupboards had glass fronts, he didn’t have any trouble finding a pair of bright cobalt blue mugs. He had to open a couple of drawers before he found the flatware, but that gave him the opportunity to marvel. Every drawer was tidy and organized.

How did she do that? He’d been in his house for only a matter of months and his kitchen drawers looked like a flea market. Nobody should be that organized. It wasn’t natural.

Interesting-looking woman, though, he decided as he poked around a little. The hair that wasn’t really red, wasn’t really blond, the eyes of absolutely clear and perfect blue. Her nose tilted up a little on the end and sported a dusting of freckles, and a slight overbite made her bottom lip seem particularly full.

Long neck, he thought as he poured the coffee, lanky build with no rack to speak of.

Not beautiful. Not pretty or cute. But... interesting, and the few times she’d smiled? Almost arresting. Almost.

He dumped a spoon of sugar from a squat white bowl in one mug, picked up the other.

He took his first sip looking out her over-the-sink window, then turned when he heard her boot steps. She moved briskly, with an efficiency that hinted at athleticism. Wiry, he thought, as much as lanky.

He saw her shift her gaze down, followed it and saw Jaws circle and squat.

Simon opened his mouth, but before he could yell Hey!, his usual response, Fiona tossed the folder she carried on the counter and clapped her hands twice, sharply.

The sound startled Jaws out of his squat.

She moved fast, scooping up the pup with one hand, grabbing the leash with the other. “Good dog, Jaws, good dog. Let’s go out. Time to go out. Pantry, second shelf, canister with mini-treats, grab a handful,” she ordered Simon, and clipped the leash on the collar as she headed out the back door.

The three dogs whooshed after her in a flurry of fur and paws.

He found her gnome-sized pantry as scarily organized as the drawers, dug out a handful of little dog cookies the size of his knuckle from a big glass jar. Hooking the mug handles in one hand, he walked outside.

She still carried the dog, with her long legs eating up the short distance to the edge of trees that guarded the back of her property. By the time she put Jaws down Simon caught up.

“Stop.” She stopped the pup from attacking the leash, rubbed his head. “Look at the big guys, Jaws! What are the big guys doing?” She turned him, walked a few steps.

Obviously, the pup was more interested in the dogs, currently sniffing, lifting legs, sniffing, than the leash. He bounded after them.

“I’m giving him some slack. Thanks.” Fiona took the coffee, drank deep, sighed. “Praise Jesus. Okay, you’re going to want to pick a regular spot for your Pooptown. You don’t want land mines all over your property. So you consistently take him where you want him to go. Then he’ll just start going there. You’re the one who has to be vigilant and consistent. He’s just a baby, so that means you’re going to have to take him out several times a day. As soon as he wakes up in the morning and before you go to bed at night, every time he eats.”

In his mind’s eye, Simon saw his life becoming a revolving door swinging at the whims of the dog’s elimination needs.

“And when he does what he’s supposed to do,” Fiona continued, “be thrilled. Positive reinforcement—lavish. He wants to please you. Wants to be praised and rewarded. See there, the big guys are going, so he’s not going to be outdone.”

Simon shook his head. “When I take him out, he spends an hour sniffing, rolling and screwing around, then cuts loose five seconds after I take him back in.”

“Show him. You’re a guy. Whip it out and pee.”

“Now?”

She laughed—and yeah, he thought, almost arresting. “No, but in the privacy of your own. Here.” She handed him the leash. “Get down to his level, call him. Happy, happy! Use his name, then when he comes, make over him, give him one of the treats.”

He felt stupid, making happy noises because his dog shit in the woods, but thinking of the countless piles he’d cleaned off his floors, he followed instructions.

“Well done. Let’s try a basic command before the others get here. Jaws.” She took hold of him to turn his attention, stroked him until he’d calmed down. She took one of the treats Simon held, palmed it in her left hand, then lifted her right over the pup’s head, extended her index finger. “Jaws, sit. Sit!” As she spoke, she moved her finger over his head so he looked up, trying to follow it. And his butt hit the ground.

“Good dog! Good!” She fed him, petted him, praised him. “Repeat, repeat. He’ll automatically look up, and when he does the back of him goes down. As soon as he sits, praise, reward. Once he gets that, you try it with just the voice command. If he doesn’t get it, go back and repeat. When he does, praise, reward.”

She stepped back.

Since the pup wanted to follow her, Simon had a little struggle.

“Make him focus on you. You’re the boss. He thinks you’re a patsy.”

Annoyed, Simon shot her one cold stare. But he had to admit, when the pup’s rump hit the ground, he felt a little spurt of pride and pleasure.

He could see Fiona, standing hip-shot, arms folded. Judging him, Simon thought, as he went through the routine again, and again. When her dogs wandered over to join her, sitting like three sphinxes, he felt ridiculous.

“Try it without the motion. Point, use the voice command. Keep eye contact. Point, use the command.”

Like that was going to work, Simon thought, but he pointed. “Sit.” And gaped when Jaws plopped his ass on the ground. “He sat. You sat. Nice job. Nice work.” As Jaws inhaled the little cookie, Simon grinned over at Fiona. “Did you see that?”

“I did. He’s a good, smart dog.” Hers went on alert. “Time to get started. Your classmates are coming.”

“How do you know?”

“They know.” She laid one hand on the closest dog’s head. “Here, let Newman smell you.”

“What?”

She simply gestured, then took Simon’s hand, held it down to Newman. “Newman, this is Simon. This is Simon. Walk with Simon. Walk. I need to set a couple things up. Newman’s going to walk with you while you practice leading Jaws on the leash. Stop off and get the head collar, then come on around. Newman’ll give you a hand with him.”

When she and the other dogs dashed away, Jaws leaped to chase. Newman simply gave him a gentle body block.

“Want to come home with me, big guy? I could use you. Walk, right? Walk!”

In fits and starts, with the big Lab running interference, Simon managed to lead, pull and drag the puppy across the lawn.

If the wiry, almost arresting dog trainer earned her fee, he thought, he might end up with a dog as appealing as Newman.

Miracles happened—occasionally.

An hour later, exhausted, Simon sprawled on his own living room couch. Jaws scrabbled at his leg, whined.

“Jesus, don’t you ever wind down? I feel like I’ve been to boot camp.” He hefted the dog up and Jaws wiggled and licked and snuggled. “Yeah, yeah. You did okay. We did okay.”

He scratched the pup’s ears.

In minutes, man and dog were sound asleep.

Three

With a day loaded with classes, Fiona needed a jump start to the morning. Over sweetened black coffee, she debated the relative fuel ratios of Froot Loops versus Toaster Strudels.

Maybe a combination of both, she considered, as she’d missed out on that fat burger and mountain of fries the day before due to man and dog.

Sexy man, sweet dog, she mused, but she’d ended up settling for frozen pizza at the end of a long day because she’d been too tired to think about actually cooking.

Since she had another long day ahead of her, what was the harm in an extra boost of sugar?

As she debated, she drank the coffee and watched her dogs play outside. She never got tired of watching them. And wasn’t she lucky she could make a reasonable living in the company of dogs, and do something important?

She thought of a little boy, warm and safe, and a father weeping with relief with his arms around a very good dog. Now that very good dog pranced around the yard with a stick in his mouth, as proud of that find—or nearly—as he’d been with the kid.

As she watched, all three dogs alerted, then raced around to the front of the house.

Somebody had driven over her little bridge.

Damn it. Her day wasn’t supposed to start for nearly an hour. She wanted her solo time, and her Froot Loops/Toaster Strudel combo before she interacted with other humans.

But when she walked to the front door, opened it, her mood took a bounce. She was always ready to interact with Sylvia.

Sylvia hopped out of her snappy hybrid—a compact, energetic woman with rich brown waves bouncing. She wore knee-high boots with skinny little heels under a floaty skirt matched with a gorgeous plummy sweater that had, no doubt, come from her own stock. Huge silver triangles swayed at her ears as she stepped back so her cheerful Boston terrier, Oreo, could jump out after her.

The dogs immediately fell into an orgy of delighted welcome—sniff, lick, roll, run. Sylvia gracefully waded through them and shot Fiona one of her stunning smiles.

“Morning, cutie! We’re an hour early, I know, but I wanted some gossip time. Can you spare it?”

“For you I can.” Fiona crouched as Oreo raced to give her a quick hello before dashing back to his playmates. “Come on back to the kitchen. You can have some tea while I grab breakfast.”

Sylvia’s hello included a long, hard hug—it always did—before, with her arm still looped around Fiona’s waist, she walked into the house.

“The news about you and Peck finding the little boy is all over the island. You did good.”

“Peck was perfect. And the fact Hugh had to pee, twice, didn’t hurt. Still, it’s pretty amazing how much ground a three-year-old in footie Spider-Man pj’s can cover.”

“He must’ve been so scared.”

“More wet, cold and tired, really.” Fiona put the kettle on, gestured to the cupboard where she kept several options of herbal tea, with Sylvia in mind. “I’m really sorry I didn’t call you right away to let you know.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Sylvia waved it off as she settled for cinnamon peach. “I was out and about anyway, checking out some pottery—and naturally left my phone in the car. I have to stop doing that.”

She turned, narrowed her eyes as Fiona took a box of Froot Loops out of another cupboard. “You’re not having that processed sugar for breakfast.”

“Fruit, as in Froot Loops.” Smiling hopefully, Fiona shook the box. “There has to be fruit in here.”

“Sit down. I’m fixing you a decent breakfast.”

“Syl, this is fine.”

“It might be, on occasion, if you were ten. Sit,” she repeated, and, at home, opened Fiona’s refrigerator. “Um-hmm, um-hmm. I can work with this. You’ll have a nice egg-white omelet on whole wheat toast.”

“I will?”

“And fill me in on the distraction. An interesting eyeful, isn’t he?”

“Adorable, and with some training he’ll be a wonderful companion.”

Sylvia shot Fiona an arched look as she pulled out a small bowl and a tiny container. “I meant Simon.”

“Maybe I did, too.”

“Ha. He’s tremendously talented, and well mannered, if a little mysterious.”

“Which one are you talking about?”

“Smarty.” Expertly, Sylvia separated the eggs, sealing the yolks in the container before whipping the whites together with a little cheese and herbs. “He has a lovely house on East Sound, is meticulous in his craft, has gorgeous eyes, a strong back, a cute puppy, and he’s single.”

“He sounds perfect for you. Go get him, Syl.”

“I might, if he wasn’t two decades behind me.” Sylvia poured the egg whites into the skillet she had heating and popped bread into the toaster as Fiona fixed the tea. “You go get him.”

“What would I do with him once I got him? Besides that,” she added when Sylvia snorted, “men, like dogs, aren’t just for the fun times. They’re a full-out, long-term commitment.”

“You need the fun times so you can decide if you want the rest. You could try, oh, I don’t know, the wild and crazy concept of a date.”

“I’ve been known to date. I prefer group socialized events, but I occasionally date. And I occasionally indulge in those euphemistic fun times. And before you give another nudge, just let me say: Pot, kettle.”

“I married the love of my life, and had ten wonderful years with him. Sometimes I still feel cheated we didn’t have more time.”

“I know.” Fiona slipped over to rub a hand down Sylvia’s back as they both thought of Fiona’s father. “You made him so happy.”

“We made each other. I can’t help wanting that for you.” She slid the omelet onto the lightly browned toast on a plate. “Eat your breakfast.”

“Yes, ma’am.” They sat across from each other at the tiny table, and Fiona took the first bite. “God, this is good.”

“And hardly took more time or effort than pouring colored sugar into a bowl.”

“You’re entirely too hard on the loops of fruit, but this is too good for me to argue.”

“Well, while you’re eating a decent breakfast, I’ll tell you what I know about Simon Doyle.” Sipping, Sylvia leaned back, crossed her legs. “And don’t bother trying to tell me you’re not curious.”

“Okay, I won’t because I am. A little curious.”

“He’s thirty-three, originally from Spokane, though he lived the last several years in Seattle.”

“Spokane and Seattle. Night and day.”

“Pretty much. His father owns and still operates as a contractor in Spokane—with Simon’s older brother. He double-majored in art and architecture at USC, then worked as a cabinetmaker before he began to design and build furniture. He did pretty well for himself in Seattle, won some awards. Had a very hot affair with Nina Abbott—”

“The singer?”

“That’s right. Pop star, rock star—I’m not sure where she fits.”

“Bad girl of pop,” Fiona said over a mouthful of omelet. “She’s a little crazy.”

“Maybe so, but they steamed it up for a few months after she commissioned him to design several pieces for her house on Bainbridge Island. She’s originally from Washington state and has a house there.”

“Yeah, I know. I read People, watch E! TV now and then. I just... Oh, wait. He’s the one? I remember reading some dish about her and a carpenter. The press mostly referred to him as a carpenter. She’s sexy and talented, but there’s that little-bit-crazy factor.”

“Some people like to shock, I think. Anyway, it fizzled. Still, I expect it didn’t hurt him, business-wise. Then about three months ago, he moved here, and Island Arts is very proud, and damn lucky, to be his exclusive outlet in the San Juans.”

Sylvia lifted her teacup in toast, then sipped.

“Did you get all that from his bio for Island Arts’ Web page and brochures?”

“Actually the bio he gave me was a little thin, so I Googled him.”

“Sylvia.”

Unashamed, Sylvia tossed her lush curls. “Listen, when I take on an artist I have to know who they are. For one thing, I often have to travel to them to check out their work. I wouldn’t want to wander into the den of an ax murderer, would I?”

“I bet you can’t Google most ax murderers. Except those already in prison or in the ground.”

“You never know. Anyway, over and above his work, I like him. What did you think?”

“Since he was a little pissed that Jaws ate the headrest in his truck—”

“Oops.”

“Yeah, and was obviously frustrated with his new puppy-owner status, it might be difficult to judge. On surface observation, and setting aside his physical attributes—”

“And he has them,” Sylvia said with a wicked wiggle of eyebrows.

“No question. I’d say he’s not used to having responsibility for anyone other than himself, and more used to solo ventures. A lone wolf sort—which you’ve added to with this morning’s data: a private place on the sound of a very small island, his move away from family, his choice of career.”

“Sometimes a lone wolf just hasn’t found a mate—or his pack.”

“You’re forever a romantic.”

“Guilty,” Sylvia agreed. “And proud of it.”

“Well, on his side, the puppy’s crazy about him. Shows no fear. Right now, the dog is the alpha, which tells me the man has a soft center. It may be small—can’t know yet—but it’s there. That’s also illustrated by the fact that while he’s very frustrated and annoyed, he doesn’t seem inclined to get rid of the dog. And when given logical options, he accepts. He signed Jaws up for kindergarten, and while I wouldn’t say Simon appears to be happy or enthusiastic about it, he did seem determined. So while not especially used to taking responsibility for another, he will take it when he sees no way out.”

“I swear, you should have gone into psychology. Or profiling.”

“Everything I know, I learned from dogs.” Fiona rose to take her plate to the dishwasher, then turned to step behind Sylvia’s chair and wrap her arms around her stepmother’s neck. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“Anytime.”

“Have another cup of tea. I’m going to set up for class.”

“I’ll help you.”

“Not in those boots. We’re a little soggy from yesterday’s rain. Change your very sexy ones for my Uggs before you come out. They’re in the mudroom.”

“Fee,” Sylvia said before Fiona left the room.

“Yeah.”

“It’s been nearly eight years now, for both of us.”

“I know.”

“It hit me this morning. Sometimes it does when it comes up on the anniversary of Will’s death. So I just wanted to get out of the house—and more, to see you. I want to tell you how glad I am you’re here, that I can come by and fix you breakfast, or borrow your Uggs. I’m so glad, Fee.”

“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 sitstay 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.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered but, determined to be cagey, tried for the same happy tone in his call. “Come on, Jaws, you little bastard. Here, boy, you demon from hell.”

He quickened his steps toward the sound of puppy pleasure until he heard the rustling in the brush.

The pup emerged, filthy, and manfully dragging what appeared to be the decaying corpse of a very large bird.

And he’d actually worried a very large bird would get the dog? What a joke.

“Jesus Christ, put that thing down. I mean it.”

Jaws growled playfully, eyes alight, and dragged his find backward.

“Here! Now! Come!”

Jaws responded by hauling the corpse over, sitting and offering it. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” Judging the timing, Simon grabbed the dog and booted what was left of the bird back into the brush. Jaws wiggled, struggling for freedom.

“This isn’t a game of fet—Don’t say the f word. On the other hand, fuck, fuck, fuck!” He held the dog aloft. The stench was unspeakable.

“What did you do, roll in it? For God’s sake, why?”

With no other choice, Simon tucked the odorous dog firmly under his arm and, breathing through his teeth, hiked back to the house.

On the way back he considered and dismissed hosing the dog off. No way a hosing would combat the smell—even if he could keep the dog still long enough. He considered a bath, wished he had a galvanized tub—and shackles. An indoor bath gave him visions of a flooded bathroom.

On his porch he managed to take off his boots while Jaws bathed his face in loving, death-smell kisses. He tossed his wallet on a table when he went inside and straight up to the shower.

When he’d closed them both in, Simon stripped down to boxers, ignoring the dog while Jaws attacked jeans and shirt. Then he turned on the spray.

“Deal with it,” Simon suggested when Jaws bashed into the tile, then the glass door in a bid to escape.

Teeth set, Simon picked up the soap.

They were late. Fiona checked the time again, shrugged and continued to fill a pot with pansies and trails of vinca. She’d simply have to train Simon to respect her schedule, but for the moment having the luxury of a bit of gardening satisfied her. Her dogs snoozed nearby, and she had a rocking mix on her iPod.

If her new students didn’t show, she’d get the second planter done, then maybe take her boys for a little hide-and-seek in the woods.

The day, sunny and mild, all blue skies and pretty breezes, was meant to be enjoyed.

She studied her work, fluffed petals, then started the second pot.

She spotted the truck.

“That’s Simon,” she said when her dogs rose. “Simon and Jaws.” And went back to her pansies.

She continued to plant as man and dog got out of the truck, as her dogs greeted them—as man waded through the dogs. And took her time placing the next cell pack of pansies, precisely.

When Simon tapped her shoulder, she pulled out her earbuds. “Sorry, did you say something?”

“We’re probably late.”

“Uh-huh.” She patted dirt.

“There were circumstances.”

“The world’s full of them.”

“We had a large share of the world’s circumstances, but the biggest involved the dead bird.”

“Oh?” Fiona glanced over at the puppy, now engaged in fierce tug-of-war with Bogart. “Did he get a bird?”

“Something else got the bird, days ago from the look—and smell—of it.”

“Ah.” She nodded and, deciding to take pity, pulled off her gloves. “Did he bring it to you?”

“Eventually. After he rolled in it for a while.”

“How’d he handle the bath?”

“We had a shower.”

“Really?” She swallowed back the laugh since he didn’t look inclined to appreciate it. “How’d that work out?”

“After he stopped trying to butt his way through the shower door and eat the soap, okay. Actually, he liked it. We may have found a shaky foot-hold of mutual ground.”

“It’s a start. What did you do with the corpse?”

“The bird?” He stared at her, wondering why the hell she’d care. “I kicked it back in the brush. I had my hands full with the dog.”

“You’d better bag it and dispose of it. Otherwise, he’s going to find it again first chance he gets.”

“Great. Perfect.”

“Smells are a dog’s crack. He did what instinct told him to do.” And the human, she decided, had done just as he should—except call and tell her he’d be late. “Given the circumstances, I’ll give you the full session. Did you do your homework?”

“Yeah, yeah. Yes,” he corrected when Fiona raised an eyebrow. “He’ll sit on command—almost every time. He’ll come on command when he damn well feels like it. Since we were here last, he’s tried or succeeded in eating a TV remote, a pillow, an entire roll of toilet paper, part of a stair tread, most of a bag of barbecue potato chips, two chairs and a mallet. And before you ask, yes, I corrected and replaced. He doesn’t give a damn.”

“Learn to puppy-proof,” she advised with no particular sympathy. “Jaws!” Fiona clapped her hands to get his attention, held them out in invitation and smiled. “Come. Jaws, come!”

He bounded over to scrabble at her knees. “Good dog!” She pulled a treat out of her pocket. “What a good dog.”

“Bullshit.”

“There’s that positive attitude and reinforcement!”

“You don’t live with him,” Simon muttered.

“True enough.” Deliberately, she set her trowel on the steps. “Sit.” Jaws obeyed and accepted another treat, more praise, more rubs.

And she watched his eyes shift over to the trowel.

When she set her hands on her knees, he struck, fast as a whiplash, and with the trowel in his teeth raced away.

“Don’t chase him.” Fiona grabbed Simon’s hand as he turned. “He’ll only run and make it a game. Bogart, bring me the rope.”

She sat where she was, the rope in her hand, and called Jaws. He raced forward, then away again.

“See, he’s trying to bait us into it. We respond, go after him, he’s won the round.”

“It seems to me if he eats your tool, he’s won.”

“It’s old, but in any case, he doesn’t know he’s won unless we play. We don’t play. Jaws! Come!” She pulled another treat out of her pocket. After a brief debate, the pup loped back to her.

“This is not yours.” She pried his mouth open, took the trowel, shook her head. “Not yours. This is yours.” And passed him the rope.

She set the trowel down again, and again he lunged for it. This time, Fiona slapped her hand on it, shook her head. “Not yours. This is yours.”

She repeated the process, endlessly patient, schooling Simon along the way. “Try not to say no too often. You should reserve it for when you need or want him to stop instantly. When it’s important. There, see, he’s lost interest in the trowel. We won’t play. But we’ll play with the rope. Grab the other end, give him a little game of tug.”

Simon sat beside her, used the rope to pull the dog in, gave it slack, tugged side to side. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for a dog.”

Willing to give some sympathy now, she patted Simon’s knee. “This from a man who takes showers with his puppy?”

“It was necessary.”

“It was clever, efficient and inventive.” And they both smelled of soap and... sawdust, she realized. Very nice. “He’ll learn. You’ll both learn. How about the housebreaking?”

“Actually, that’s working.”

“Well, there you go. You’ve both learned how to handle that, and he sits on command.”

“And wanders into the forest to roll in dead bird, eats my universal remote.”

“Simon, you’re such a Pollyanna.”

He sent her a narrow stare and only made her laugh. “You’re making progress. Work on training him to come, every time you call. Every time. It’s essential. We’ll work on some leash training, then give him a refresher on coming.”

As she rose, she saw the cruiser heading down her lane. “It’s a good time to teach him not to run toward a car—and not to jump on a visitor. Keep him controlled, talk to him.”

She waved and waited for Davey to pull up and get out of the car. “Hi, Davey.”

“Fee. Hi, guys, how’s it going?” He bent to rub black, yellow and brown fur. “Sorry, Fee, I didn’t know you had a lesson going.”

“No problem. This is Simon Doyle and Jaws. Deputy Englewood.”

“Right, you bought the Daubs’ place a few months back. Nice to meet you.” Davey nodded at Simon, then crouched to greet the puppy. “Hey, little fella. I don’t want to interrupt,” he said as he scratched and rubbed the exuberant Jaws. “I can wait until you’re done.”

“It’s okay. Simon, why don’t you get the leash, do a little solo work on heeling? I’ll be right there. Is there a problem, Davey?” she murmured when Simon walked to his truck.

“Why don’t we take a little walk ourselves?”

“Okay, now you’re scaring me. Did something happen? Syl?”

“Syl’s fine, far as I know.” But Davey put a hand on her shoulder, steered her into a walk toward the side of the house. “We got some news today, and the sheriff thought, since we go back, I should come talk to you about it.”

“About what?”

“A woman went missing mid-January back in California. Sacramento area. Went out for a jog one morning and didn’t come back. They found her about a week later in Eldorado National Forest, shallow grave. An anonymous tip gave them the basic direction.”

She swallowed the flutter in her throat and said nothing.

“Ten days ago, another woman went out for a morning run in Eureka, California.”

“Where did they find her?”

“Trinity National Forest. The first woman, she was nineteen. The second was twenty. College students. Outgoing, athletic, single. Both had part-time jobs. The first worked as a bartender, the second in a bookstore. They both were taken down with a stun gun, then bound with nylon rope, gagged with duct tape. Both were strangled with a red scarf left on the body.”

She couldn’t feel the flutters now, not when her body had gone numb. “And tied in a bow.”

“Yeah, and tied in a bow.”

Fiona pressed a hand to her heart, felt it pounding. “Perry’s in prison. He’s still in prison.”

“He’s never getting out, Fee. He’s locked up, locked down.”

“It’s a copycat.”

“It’s more than that.” He reached out, gave her shoulders a rub. “It’s more than that, Fee. There are details the Perry investigation didn’t release, like how Perry took a lock of hair from his victims and wrote a number on the back of their right hand.”

Already the numbness was wearing off. She wanted it back, wanted it to block this sickness roiling in her belly. “He told someone, or one of the investigators did—someone in the crime lab or the medical examiner’s office.”

Davey kept his eyes on hers, his hands on her shoulders. “Has to be. They’re going to track that down.”

“Don’t treat me like an idiot, Davey. Any of dozens of people could’ve passed that information on. It’s been nearly eight years since...”

“I know. I’m sorry, Fee. I want you to know the cops are all over this. We wanted you to be informed, and it’s likely the media’s going to make the connection pretty quick. They might poke at you about it.”

“I can handle the press. Greg’s family?”

“They’re being notified, too. I know this is hard for you, Fee, but I don’t want you to worry. They’ll get him. And as bad as it is, this asshole’s sticking to Perry’s pattern. Young college girls. You’re not twenty anymore.”

“No.” She bore down to keep her voice steady. “But I’m the only one who got away.”

Simon didn’t have to hear the conversation to know something was wrong. Bad news or trouble, maybe both. He couldn’t see why Fiona would want anyone around—especially when the anyone was the next thing to a stranger.

He considered loading the dog back in the truck and taking off. It would be rude, but he didn’t particularly mind rude.

But it also seemed downright cold, and that he did mind.

He’d just wait until the deputy left, let the woman make whatever excuses suited her, then escape. Nobody lost face.

Plus, miracle of miracles, he was actually getting Jaws to heel about thirty percent of the time. Even the pup’s cooperation stemming from having the other dogs stroll along, stop on command, didn’t negate success.

So he could go home flush from that, get a little more work done, then have a beer.

Take the dead bird out of the equation and it added up to a pretty good day.

When the cruiser headed out, he expected Fiona to wander over, make those excuses, then go handle whatever needed handling.

Instead, she stood where she was for several minutes, just staring out at the road. Then she walked back to the porch steps, sat. And sat.

So he’d make the excuses, Simon decided. Easy enough. Just remembered something I have to do. Dog’s coming along, blah, blah, see you.

He crossed toward her, pleased it only took a couple of tugs to have the pup fall in line. And as he approached, he saw she was dead white, and the hands clutched on her knees trembled lightly.

Crap.

With walking casually away no longer an option, he scooped up the puppy before Jaws could try to leap into her lap.

“Bad news,” he said.

“What?”

“The deputy brought bad news. Is Sylvia all right?”

“Yes. It’s not about Sylvia.”

Her dogs, sensing her mood, clustered around her. The big yellow Lab rested his head on her knee.

“Ah... we should...”

He watched her struggle to pull herself out of whatever hole she’d fallen into.

“We should work on sit and stay.”

“Not today.”

She looked up at him then, but he couldn’t translate what clouded her eyes. Grief ? Fear? Shock?

“No,” she agreed, “not today. Sorry.”

“No problem. I’ll see you next time.”

“Simon.” She drew a breath as he hesitated. “Would you mind... Could you stay for a while?”

He wanted to say no—wished he had it in him to say no. Maybe he’d have found it in him if it hadn’t been so obvious it was as hard for her to ask as for him to agree.

“All right.”

“Why don’t you let him run awhile. The big guys’ll watch him. Play,” she said as Simon unclipped the leash. “Stay close. Close,” she repeated, stroking fur. “Watch Jaws, go play.”

They whined a little, and each glanced back at her as they started into the yard.

“They know I’m upset. They’d rather stay until I’m not. You’d rather go.”

He sat beside her. “Yeah. I’m not much good at this kind of thing.”

“Not much good’s better than no good.”

“Okay. I guess you want to tell me the bad news.”

“I guess I do. It’ll get around the island anyway.”

Still, for a few moments she said nothing at all, then seemed to gather herself.

“Several years ago there was a series of abduction murders. Young women, ranging from eighteen to twenty-three. They were all college students, twelve of them over a three-year period. California, Nevada, Oregon, New Mexico, Washington state were either abduction sites or burial sites—or both.”

It rang a bell somewhere, dimly, but he said nothing.

“They were all the same type—not physically, as he crossed races and coloring, but basic body types and all college students, athletic, outdoorsy, outgoing. He’d stalk them for weeks once he’d chosen a target. Sometimes longer. Meticulous, patient, he’d record their routines, habits, wardrobe, friends, family, schedules. He used a tape recorder and kept a notebook. All of them either jogged or hiked or biked routinely. Habitually.”

She drew another breath and made him think of someone preparing to execute a surface dive in murky water.

“He preferred women who went out alone, early morning or dusk. He approached from the opposite direction—just another jogger, another hiker. And when he closed in, he used a stun gun to take them down. While they were incapacitated, he carried them to his car. He had the trunk lined with plastic so there’d be no trace on the bodies, and no trace of them in the trunk.”

“Thorough,” Simon said, thinking out loud.

“Yes. Very.” She continued briskly, without inflection, like a woman giving a report she knew by rote. “He bound them with nylon cord, gagged them with duct tape, then gave them a mild sedative to keep them under, keep them quiet. He’d drive to a national park. He’d already have the spot picked out. While the search went on for her, in the area she’d been abducted, he was hours away, forcing this groggy, terrified woman to walk, through the dark, off the trail.”

Now her voice hitched, a quick tremble as she linked her fingers together in her lap and stared straight ahead. “He dug the grave first—not too deep. He wanted them to be found. He liked them to watch him dig so he tied them to a tree. They couldn’t beg, couldn’t even ask him why because he kept them gagged the entire time. He didn’t rape them or torture them, physically. Or beat them or mutilate them. He just took out the red scarf and, while they were bound and gagged, unable to defend themselves, strangled them. He tied it in a bow when he was finished, and buried them.”

“The Red Scarf Killer. That’s what the press called him,” Simon commented. “I remember this. They caught him after he shot some cop.”

“Greg Norwood. The cop was Greg Norwood, and his dog, his K-9 partner, Kong.”

The words throbbed in the air between them like an open wound.

“You knew him.”

“Perry laid in wait for them. Greg had a place, a nice little weekend place near Lake Sammamish. He liked to take Kong there, work on his training. Once a month, just the two of them. Boy-bonding, he called it.”

She laid her hands on her knees, a casual gesture, but he saw the way her fingers dug in.

“He shot Greg first, and maybe that was his mistake. He put two bullets in Kong, but Kong kept coming. That’s what they reconstructed, and that’s what Perry said happened, trading confessions, information, details against the threat of the death penalty when he knew he’d lose the trial. Kong tore Perry up pretty good before he died. Perry was strong, and he managed to get back to his car, even drove a few miles before he passed out, wrecked. Anyway, they got him. Greg, he was strong, too. He lived two days. That was in September. September twelfth. We were going to be married the following June.”

Useless words, Simon thought, but they had to be said. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too. He staked Greg out for months, maybe longer. Meticulous, patient. He killed him to pay me back. See, I was supposed to be his number thirteen, but I got away.”

She closed her eyes briefly. “I want a drink. Do you want a drink?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

When she rose and went in, he debated going with her, and decided maybe she needed a little time to pull it together.

He remembered bits and pieces of the story. Remembered now there’d been a girl who escaped, and who gave the FBI a description of the man who abducted her.

Years ago, he thought now, and tried to think what he’d been doing when the story had been hot.

He just hadn’t paid that much attention, he thought now. He’d been, what, about twenty-five? He’d just moved to Seattle and had been trying to build a reputation, make a living. And his father had that cancer scare about that time. That had eclipsed everything else.

She came out with a couple glasses of white wine.

“It’s an Aussie chardonnay. All I’ve got, apparently.”

“It’s fine.” He took the glass, and they sat in silence, watching the heap of dogs who’d decided to take a nap. “Do you want to tell me how you got away?”

“Luck, on the heels of stupidity. I shouldn’t have been out alone that morning on that jogging path. I should’ve known better. My uncle’s a cop, and I was already seeing Greg, and they’d both made a point of telling me not to run without a partner. But I couldn’t get one who’d keep up with me. Track star,” she added with a ghost of a smile.

“You’ve got the legs for it.”

“Yeah. Lucky me. I didn’t listen to them. Perry hadn’t crossed over to Washington at that point, and there hadn’t been an abduction for months. You never think it’s going to be you. You especially never think that when you’re twenty. I went out for my run. I liked to go early, then hit the coffee shop. It was a crappy day, gloomy, rainy, but I loved running in the rain. This was early November, the year before Greg died. I had a second, just a second when I saw him. So ordinary-looking, so pleasant, but I had that click. I had a panic button on my key chain. I even reached for it, but it was too late. I felt that shock of pain, then nothing works.”

She had to stop a moment, had to breathe. “Nothing works,” she repeated. “Pain, shock, then numb, useless. I felt sick when I came to in the trunk. It was dark, and I felt the movement, the sound of the tires on the road. Can’t scream, can’t kick, can hardly move.”

She stopped, breathed it out, took a slow sip of wine. “I cried awhile because he was going to kill me and I couldn’t stop him. He was going to kill me because I wanted to take a morning run by myself. I thought about my family, and Greg, my friends, my life. I stopped crying and got mad. I hadn’t done anything to deserve this.”

She stopped again, drank again while the breeze whispered through the pines. “And I had to pee. That was humiliating, and as stupid as it is, the thought that I’d pee my pants before he killed me just revved me up. So I’m fighting that, sort of squirming around, and I felt the lump in my pocket. I had a hidden pocket in my jogging pants—one of those inside-the-back deals. Greg had given me this little Swiss Army knife.” She reached in the pocket of her jeans, pulled it out.

“Tiny little knife, cute little scissors, mini nail file. A girl knife.” She closed her hand around it. “It saved my life. He’d taken my keys, the coffee money I had zipped in my jacket pocket, but he hadn’t thought of the inner pocket in the pants. Couldn’t know it was there, I guess. My hands were tied behind my back. I could just reach it. I think I was most scared then, when I managed to get the knife, when I started to think maybe, maybe there was a way out.”

“Can I see it?” When she offered it, Simon opened it, studied the knife in the bright afternoon sun. Half as long as his thumb, he thought. “You cut through the nylon cord with this?”

“Cut, sawed, hacked. It took me forever just to get it open, or it seemed like it, and a lifetime to saw through the rope. I had to cut through the one around my ankles because I couldn’t loosen the knot. First I was terrified he’d stop the car before I’d finished, then I was terrified he’d never stop that fucking car. But he did. He did, and he got out whistling a tune. I’ll never forget that sound.”

He thought of it—a girl, trapped, terrified, very likely bloody where the cords had cut into her. And armed with a knife barely more lethal than a thumbtack.

“I put the duct tape back over my mouth.”

She said it so calmly now, so matter-of-factly that he turned his head to stare at her.

“And I wound the rope around my ankles, put my hands behind my back. I closed my eyes. When he opened the trunk, he kept right on whistling.

“He leaned in, tapped my cheek to bring me around. And I stuck that little knife in him. I’d hoped for the eye, but I missed and got him in the face. Still it surprised him, hurt him enough to give me a second. I rammed my fist into his face and swung my legs around and kicked. Not as hard as I wanted because the rope got tangled some, but hard enough to knock him back so I could get out. The shovel was right there, where he’d dropped it when I stabbed him. I grabbed it and I slammed it against his head—a couple of times. I got his keys. I’m still a little blurry on all of it—shock, adrenaline, they said—but I got in the car and floored it.”

“You knocked him out and drove away,” Simon murmured, stunned and fascinated.

“I didn’t know where I was, where I was going, and I’m lucky I didn’t kill myself, but I drove like a bat out of hell. There was a lodge, a hotel—I saw the lights. He’d taken me into the Olympic National Forest. They called the rangers, and the rangers called in the FBI and so on and so on. He got away, but I gave them a description. They had the car, his name, his address. Or the one he had on record. And still, he eluded them for nearly a year. Until he shot Greg and Kong, and Kong stopped him. Kong gave his life to stop him.”

She took the knife back, slipped it into her pocket.

“You seem like a fairly smart woman,” Simon commented after a few moments. “So you know that what you did saved other women. The bastard’s put away, right?”

“Multiple and consecutive life terms. They made the deal after I testified, after he realized he’d be convicted for Greg, for me, and he’d face the death penalty.”

“Why’d they deal?”

“For confessions on Greg, on me, on the other twelve victims, for the whereabouts of his notebooks, his tapes, for closure for the families of the murdered women. For answers. And the certainty he’d never get out.”

She nodded as if to a question in her head. “I always thought it was the right thing to do. It gave me, strangely enough, relief to hear him go through all of it, step by step, and to know he’d pay for it, for all of it, for a very, very long time. I wanted to put it behind me, close the door. My father died just nine weeks later. So suddenly, so unexpectedly, and the bottom dropped out again.”

She rubbed her hands over her face. “Horrible times. I came out to stay with Syl for a few weeks, a couple months, I thought, but I realized I didn’t want to go back. I needed to start over, and I wanted to start over here. So I did, and most of the time that door stays closed.”

“What opened it today?”

“Davey came to tell me someone is using Perry’s pattern, including details that weren’t released to the public. There’ve been two so far. In California. It’s started again.”

Questions circled in his head, but he didn’t ask them. She was done, he thought. Purged what she’d needed to purge for now.

“Rough on you. Brings it all back, makes it now instead of then.”

Again she closed her eyes, and her whole body seemed to relax. “Yes. Yes, exactly. God, maybe it’s stupid, but it really helps to have someone say that. To have someone get that. So thanks.”

She laid a hand on his knee, a brief connection. “I have to go in, make some calls.”

“Okay.” He handed her the glass. “Thanks for the drink.”

“You earned it.”

Simon walked over to pick up the puppy, who immediately started bathing his face as if they’d been parted for a decade.

As he drove away, he glanced back to see Fiona going inside, closely followed by her dogs.

Five

Fiona thought about dinner, and had another glass of wine instead. Talking to Greg’s parents tore off the scar tissue and opened the wound again. She knew the healthy option was to fix a meal, maybe take a long walk with the dogs. Get out of the house, get out of herself.

Instead she shooed the dogs outside and indulged in a long session of brooding so wide and deep her hackles rose at the interruption of another visitor.

Couldn’t people just let her wallow?

The chorus of happy barks translated to a friend. She wasn’t surprised to see James and his Koby exchanging greetings with her dogs.

She leaned against the porch post, idly sipping her wine and watching him. In the floodlights she’d flipped on, his hair had a sheen. But then, something about James always did. His skin, an indescribable shade she thought of as caramel dipped in gold dust, was a testament to his widely mixed heritage. His eyes, a bright, shining green, often laughed out of a forest of lashes.

He turned them on Fiona now, with a quick and easy smile as he shook a jumbo take-out bag.

“I brought provisions.”

She took another slow sip of wine. “Davey talked to you.”

“Seeing as he’s married to my sister, he often does.”

He walked to her, bringing the scent of food, then just wrapped his free arm around her to bring her close. Swayed.

“I’m okay. I’ve just been holding the first meeting of my Pity Me Club.”

“I want to join. I’ll be president.”

“I’ve already elected myself president. But since you brought provisions, you can be the second official member.”

“Do we get badges? A secret handshake?” He leaned back to press his lips to her forehead. “Let’s go inside and vote on it over burgers.”

“I talked to Greg’s mother,” Fiona told him as she led the way.

“Hard.”

“Brutal. So I’ve been sitting here drinking wine in the dark.”

“Fair enough, but I’m calling time’s-up on that. Got any Coke?”

“Pepsi. Diet.”

“Blech. I’ll take it.”

As much at home in her place as in his own, he got out plates, set a burger, loaded, on each, then divvied up the mountain of fries from an insulated box. She poured out the drinks after dumping the rest of the wine in her glass down the sink.

“We should’ve had sex before we got to be friends.”

He smiled, sat. “I think we were eleven and twelve when you started coming on island to see your dad, so we were a little young for sex when we got to be friends.”

“Still.” She plopped down in her chair. “If we’d had sex back then, we could have a revival now. It’d be a good distraction. But now it’s too late because I’d feel stupid getting naked with you.”

“It’s a problem.” He took a bite of burger. “We could do it in the dark, and use assumed names. I’d be Rock Hard and you’d be Lavender Silk.”

“Nobody can call out ‘Lavender’ while in the throes. I’ll be Misty Mars. I like the alliteration.”

“Fine. So, Misty, you want to eat first or just go jump in the sack?”

“It’s hard to resist that kind of romance, but we’ll eat.” She nibbled on a fry. “I don’t want to beat on the drum all night, James, but it’s so strange. Just the other day I was telling Syl how I could hardly get Greg’s face in my head. How he’s faded on me. Do you know?”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

“And the minute Davey told me about what’s happened, it was there again. I can see him, every detail of his face. He’s back. And... is it awful?” she managed as tears rose in her throat. “Is it? That I wish he wasn’t. A part of me wants him to fade, and I didn’t realize that until he came back.”

“So what? You should wear black and read depressing poetry for the rest of your life? You grieved, Fee. You broke, and you mourned, and you healed. You started the unit out of love and respect for him.” Reaching over, he gave her wrist a squeeze. “And it’s a hell of a tribute.”

“If you’re going to be all rational and sensible, I don’t see how you can be a member of the Pity Me Club.”

“We can’t have a club meeting while there are burgers. That requires really bad wine and stale crackers.”

“Damn you, James, you’ve screwed up a really good wallow.” She sighed, ate her burger.

Even the comfort of a friend, the familiarity of her dogs and the nighttime routine didn’t spare her from the bad dreams. She woke every hour, struggling out of the goop of a nightmare only to sink in again the next time she drifted off.

The dogs, as restless as she, got up to pace or rearrange themselves. At three a.m., Bogart came to the side of the bed to offer her the rope as if a game of tug would set things right.

At four, Fiona gave it up. She let the dogs out, made coffee. She did a hard, sweaty workout then settled down with paperwork.

She balanced her checkbook, drafted upcoming newsletters for her classes and for the Search and Rescue subscribers. While the sky lightened she updated her Web page and spent some time surfing various blogs because she couldn’t drum up the enthusiasm to write her own.

By the time her first class began, she’d been up for over four hours and wanted a nap.

She loved her classes, Fiona reminded herself. She loved them for the work itself, the dogs, the social opportunity, the interaction. She loved being outside most of the day.

But right then she wished she’d canceled the other two classes on the schedule. Not to wallow, she told herself, but just for some alone time, just to catch up on sleep, maybe read a book.

Instead, she prepared for round two, took a call from Sylvia—word traveled—and got through it.

By the end of her workday, after she and the dogs had gathered and stowed all the toys and training tools, she realized she didn’t want to be alone after all. The house was too quiet, the woods too full of shadows.

She’d go into town, she decided. Do some shopping, maybe drop by and see Sylvia. She could walk on the beach after. Fresh air, exercise, change of scene. She’d keep at it until she was too damn tired for dreams, bad or otherwise.

She decided on Newman for company. As he leaped in the car, she turned to the other dogs.

“You know how it is. Everybody gets a chance for some one-on-one. We’ll bring you something. Be good.”

When she got in, she gave Newman a sidelong glance. “No smirking,” she ordered.

Stress eased as she drove, snaking along while the early evening sun dipped beams into the water. Fatigue lessened as she opened the windows wide and cranked up the radio while the wind tossed her hair.

“Let’s sing!”

Always ready to oblige, Newman howled in harmony with Beyoncé.

She intended to drive to Eastsound, stock up on essentials and treat herself to something she absolutely didn’t need. But as she wound along between hill and water, by field and forest, she followed impulse and made the turn at the mailbox marked simply DOYLE.

Maybe he needed something from the village. She could be neighborly, save him a trip. It didn’t have anything to do with wanting to see where and how he lived. Or hardly anything.

She liked the way the trees screened, and let the sunlight shimmer and shine on rock and tall grass. And she liked the house, she thought, as it came into view. The central double peaks, the tumbling lines that followed the slope of the land.

It could use some paint, she decided. Something fresh and happy for the trim. And some chairs, some colorful pots of flowers on the porch and the sweet little second-story deck. Maybe a bench under the weeping cherry that would burst into bloom in the spring.

She parked beside Simon’s truck, noted he’d replaced the headrest he’d patched with duct tape. Then she spotted the outbuilding a few yards from the house, nearly enveloped by the trees.

Long and low, it likely held as many square feet as her house, and offered a generous covered porch on the front. A scatter of tables, chairs and what she took as parts of other pieces of furniture stood or leaned under the shade.

She heard the sound of sawing—at least she thought it was sawing—buzzing under heroically loud rock and roll.

She got out, signaled Newman to join her. He scented the air—new place, new smells—as he fell into step with her.

“Great view, huh?” she murmured, looking out over the sound to the opposing shorelines and the little nubs of green on the water. “And look, he’s got a little beach down there, and a pier. He needs a boat, but it’s nice. Water, woods, some nice stretches of ground, and not too close to the road. It’s a good home for a dog.”

She scratched Newman’s ears and wandered closer to the outbuilding.

She spotted him through the window—jeans, T-shirt, goggles, tool belt. And noted she’d been right about the saw. It was, she thought, one big, scary mother. He slid wood under its fast, toothy blade. Her stomach tightened a little at the thought of what it could do to fingers, and with that in mind, she moved carefully around to the door, standing out of range until the buzzing paused.

Then she knocked, waved through the glass. When he only stood there, frowning at her, she opened the door. The pup lay on the floor, feet in the air as if he’d been electrocuted.

“Hi!” She had to pitch to just under scream level to beat out the music. “I was on my way to the village and thought...”

She trailed off as he pulled out earplugs.

“Oh, well, no wonder it’s so loud. Listen—”

She broke off again when he pulled a remote from a pocket of the tool belt, shut down the music. The silence roared like a tsunami—and woke the puppy.

He yawned, stretched, then spotted her. Insane joy leaped into his eyes as he sprang up, did a kind of bouncing dance, then charged her. Fiona crouched, held out a hand, palm facing dog so he bumped into it first.

“Hi, yes, hi, good to see you, too.” She rubbed his head, his belly. She pointed a finger at the ground. “Sit!” His butt vibrated a moment, then plopped down. “Aren’t you smart, aren’t you good?” She grabbed him when he spotted Newman, sitting patiently outside. “Can he go out? I’ve got Newman, and he’ll watch out for him.”

Simon simply shrugged.

“Okay. Go play.” She laughed when Jaws took a flying leap out the door and belly-flopped into the grass. When she glanced back, Simon remained by the table saw, watching her.

“I’ve interrupted you.”

“Yeah.”

Blunt, she thought. Well, she didn’t mind blunt. “I’m heading into the village and thought I’d see if you needed anything. Sort of a payback for playing sounding board.”

“I’m good.”

“Okay, then. We both know the do-you-need-anything’s just an excuse, but we can leave it at that. I’ll—Oh my God, that’s beautiful!”

She headed straight for the cabinet across the shop, skirting benches and tools.

“Don’t touch it!” Simon snapped, and stopped her in her tracks. “It’s tacky,” he added, in an easier tone. “Varnish.”

Obediently, she linked her hands behind her back. It was the varnish she smelled, she realized, and sawdust, and freshly sawed wood. The combination merged into a fascinating aroma. “Those are the doors? The carving’s just exquisite, and the tones of the wood. Delicious, really.” As delicious as the scent that soaked the air. “I want it. I probably can’t afford it, but I want it anyway. How much?”

“It doesn’t suit you or your place. It is elegant, and a little ornate. You’re not.”

“I can be elegant and ornate.”

He shook his head, then walked over to an old, squat refrigerator, took out two Cokes. He tossed her one, which she caught one-handed.

“No, you can’t. You want something either simpler, cleaner or going the other direction into fanciful. A little tension with the primarily Mission and Craftsman style you lean toward.”

“Is that where I lean?”

“I’ve been in your house,” he reminded her.

She yearned to run a finger over the deep carving—elongated hearts—on the raised panel of the door. “This could be tension.”

“No.”

Sincerely baffled, she turned to him. “You actually won’t sell it to me because I’m not elegant?”

“That’s right.”

“How do you sell anything?”

“On commission or direct sale. By designing what works with the client.” He eyed her while he took a deep drink. “Rough night.”

Now she jammed her hands in her pockets. “Thanks for noticing. Well, since I’m interrupting and I’m not suitable to buy your stupid cabinet, I’ll leave you alone with your monster saw.”

“I’m taking a break.”

She drank, studying him as he studied her. “You know, given my line of work, really crappy manners such as yours don’t bother me.”

“If you’re thinking of training me like my dog, you should know I’m intractable.”

She only smiled.

“So, if the need-anything-in-town was an excuse, are you hitting on me?”

She smiled again, wandered. She saw a lot of clamps and chisels, a skinnier saw and a stationary drill thingee that looked as scary as the monster saw.

She saw tools she had no names for and empty coffee cans full of nails and screws and other strange things.

What she didn’t see was any semblance of organization.

“Hitting on you? Not yet. And given your behavioral flaws, I’m reconsidering.”

“Fair enough, and to be fair back, you’re not really my type.”

She stopped examining a wonderful wide-armed rocker she coveted to send him a cool stare. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, it’s so. Mostly I lean toward the arty, feminine type. Curvy’s a bonus.”

“Like Sylvia.”

“Yeah.”

“Or Nina Abbott.” She couldn’t help the smug smile when annoyance flicked briefly in his eyes.

“Or” was all he said.

“Thank God we got that cleared up before I gave my squishy, susceptible heart into your hands.”

“Lucky break. But... it’s good to mix things up now and then. Try new things.”

“Great. I’ll let you know when I want to be mixed and tried. Meanwhile, I’ll take my inelegant, art-starved, unfeminine, flat-chested self out of your way.”

“You’re not flat-chested.”

The laugh escaped before she knew it was there. “God, you’re a weird sucker. I’m going while I still have enough crumbs of ego left to sweep into a pile.”

She went to the door, called his dog. When the puppy raced to her, she petted and praised. Then she nudged his butt farther into the room, closed the door with him inside. She flicked one glance at Simon through the glass before striding to her truck, Newman faithfully at her side.

He watched her through the window, the long, athletic stride, the easy grace. She’d looked lost when she came into the shop. Hesitant, uncertain. Tired.

Not anymore, he thought as she hopped into her truck. Now she was brisk, distracted and maybe a little pissed.

Better. Maybe he was one weird sucker, but he’d worry less about her now.

Satisfied, he replaced his earplugs, his goggles, turned on the music. And got back to work.

Eyes bright, Sylvia leaned on the counter of her pretty little shop while Fiona debated earrings. “He did not say that.”

“He absolutely said that.” Fiona held long pearl drops to one ear, funky, colored glass balls to the other. “I’m not elegant enough for his overrated cabinet. I can be elegant.” She turned. “See? Pearls.”

“Very pretty. But the fused glass ones are really you.”

“Yeah, but I could wear the pearls, if I wanted.” After setting them back in the display, Fiona wandered over to a tall raku vase.

There was always something new to see in Sylvia’s place. A painting, a scarf, a table, a treasure trove of jewelry. She stopped by a bench with high, curved sides and skimmed her fingers over the wood.

“This is beautiful.”

“It’s one of Simon’s.”

She resisted giving it a flick with her formerly admiring fingers. “Figures. Then he said I wasn’t his type. As if I’d asked. You are.”

“I am?”

“He even used you as an example. Arty and female and built.”

“Really?”

“Sure, go ahead and look smug.”

Deliberately, obviously, Sylvia fluffed at her hair. “It’s hard not to.”

“Well, feel free to follow up,” Fiona added with a dismissive wave.

“It might be interesting, but I think I’ll just stay smug. I’m sure he didn’t mean to insult you.”

“Oh yes he did.”

“Tell you what. I’m closing in ten minutes. We’ll go have dinner and trash him. Better, men in general.”

“That sounds like fun, but I need to get back. I really just came in to bitch. Jesus, Syl, it’s been a crappy couple of days.”

Sylvia skirted the counter to give Fiona a bolstering hug. “Why don’t I come over and fix you some pasta while you take a nice long bath?”

“Honestly, I think I’m going to open a can of soup, then go to bed. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“I worry about you, Fee.” She gave Fiona’s tail of hair a little tug. “Why don’t you come stay with me until they catch this maniac?”

“You know I’m fine. Me and the boys. Besides, the maniac’s not interested in me.”

“But—” She broke off when the door opened.

“Hi, Sylvia. Hi, Fiona.”

“Jackie, how are you?” Sylvia smiled at the pretty blonde who ran a local B&B.

“I’m just fine. I meant to get in earlier. I know you close in a few minutes.”

“Don’t worry about that. How’s Harry?”

“Tucked up in bed with a cold—which is one of the reasons I ran out. I swear you’d think he had the plague instead of the sniffles. He’s driving me crazy. I’ve been doing a little early spring cleaning between waiting on him hand and foot and listening to him moan. I decided I need to spruce the place up a little, do some redecorating. Mind if I look around, get some ideas?”

“You go right ahead.”

“I’d better get going. Nice to see you, Jackie.”

“You, too. Oh, Fiona, my boy and his wife just got a puppy. Practice, they say, before they start working on making me a grandmother.” She rolled her eyes.

“That’s nice. What kind did they get?”

“I don’t know. They went to a shelter.” She smiled then. “Brad said they’d save a life, then start thinking about starting one.”

“That’s really nice.”

“They named her Sheba—as in Queen of. He said if I ran into you I should tell you they’re going to sign up for your puppy classes.”

“I’ll look forward to it. I’d better go.”

“I’ll come by tomorrow, give you a hand with your classes,” Sylvia told her. “Oreo could use a little refresher course.”

“I’ll see you then. Bye, Jackie.”

As she walked out she heard Jackie exclaim over the bench, “Oh, Sylvia, this is a wonderful piece.”

“Isn’t it? It’s by the new artist I told you about. Simon Doyle.”

Fiona grumbled all the way to the truck.

In his cell in Washington State Penitentiary, George Allen Perry read his Bible. While his crimes had earned him a maximum-security cage for the rest of his life, he was considered a model prisoner.

He joined no gangs, made no complaints. He did the work assigned to him, ate the food served him. He kept himself clean, spoke respectfully to guards. He exercised regularly. He did not smoke or swear or use drugs, and spent most of the endless days reading. Every Sunday he attended services.

Visitors came rarely. He had no wife, no child, no staunch friends outside, or inside, the walls.

His father had long ago deserted him, and his mother, who the psychiatrists agreed was the root of his pathology, feared him.

His sister wrote him once a month, and made the long trek from Emmett, Idaho, once a year, considering it her Christian duty.

She’d given him the Bible.

The first year had been a misery that he’d borne with downcast eyes and a quiet manner that had disguised a raging fear. In the second year he’d lost fear in depression, and by the third he’d accepted that he would never be free.

He would never again be free to choose what to eat, and when to eat it, to rise or repose at his own whim. He would never again walk through a forest or glade or drive a car along a dark road with a secret in the trunk.

He would never again feel the power and the peace of a kill.

But there were other freedoms, and he earned them carefully. Meticulously. He expressed regret for his crimes to his lawyer, to the psychiatrist.

He’d wept, and considered the tears humiliation well spent.

He told his sister he’d been born again. He was allowed private consultation with a minister.

By his fourth year, he was assigned to the prison library, where he worked with quiet efficiency and expressed gratitude for the access to books.

And began his search for a student.

He applied for and was granted permission to take courses, both by visiting instructors and by video feed. It gave him an opportunity to interact with and study his fellow inmates in a new setting.

He found most too crude, too brutal, too lacking in intellect. Or simply too old, too young, too deeply entrenched in the system. He continued to further his education—he found it interesting—and he held to the thinning hope that fate would offer him the spiritual freedom he sought.

In his fifth year in Walla Walla, fate smiled on him. Not in the guise of a fellow inmate, but an instructor.

He knew instantly, just as he’d known the woman he would kill the moment he saw her.

This was his gift.

He began slowly, assessing, evaluating, testing. Patient, always, as he outlined and refined the methods by which he would create his proxy, the one who would walk outside the walls for him, hunt for him and kill for him.

Who would, in time, in good time, correct his single mistake. One that haunted him every night in the dark cage where silence and comfort were strangers.

Who would, in time, kill Fiona Bristow.

That time, Perry thought as he read Revelation, was nearly here.

He glanced up as the guard came to the cell. “Got a visitor.”

Perry blinked, carefully marking his place before setting aside the worn Bible. “My sister? I didn’t expect her for another six weeks.”

“Not your sister. FBI.”

“Oh, my goodness.” A big man with thinning hair and prison pallor, Perry stood meekly as the door clanged and slid open.

Two guards flanked him, and he knew others would search his cell while he was gone. No matter, none at all. They’d find nothing but his books, some religious tracts, the dry, God-fearing letters from his sister.

He kept his head down, repressed the smile that strained to spread over his face. The FBI would tell him what he already knew. His student had passed the next test.

Yes, Perry thought, there were many kinds of freedom. And at the thought of gaming with the FBI again, he took wing and soared.

Six

Grateful for the bright, brisk morning and work that demanded her full attention, Fiona studied her advanced special-skills students. Today was a very big day for dogs and handlers. They’d attempt their first blind search.

“Okay, the victim’s in place.” She thought of Sylvia, three-quarters of a mile away, sitting cozily under a forked-trunk cedar with a book, a thermos of herbal tea and her radio. “I want you to work as a unit. We’re going to use the sector system. You can see I’ve set up the base.” She gestured to a table she’d placed under a pole tarp and the equipment on it. “For today, I’ll handle base and stand as operational leader, but by next week I want you to elect your officers.”

She gestured to the whiteboard under the tarp. “Okay. The local authorities have notified the operations officer—me, in this case—and asked for assistance in the search and rescue of an adult female hiker who’s been lost approximately twenty-four hours. You see on the board temperatures last night dropped to forty-three degrees. She has only a day pack, and little experience. The victim is Sylvia Bristow.”

That brought out some grins as the class knew Sylvia as Fiona’s sometime assistant. “She’s age-deleted for my own well-being, Caucasian, brown hair, brown eyes, five feet, five inches, and about a hundred and thirty pounds. When last seen she was wearing a red jacket, jeans, a blue baseball-style cap. Now, what do you need to know before being given your sectors?”

She answered with details from the scenario she’d devised. The subject was in good health, had a cell phone but often neglected to charge it, had been expected to hike two to four hours, was not local and had only recently taken up hiking.

She called the unit to the map and the log she’d already begun. Once she’d assigned sectors, she ordered everyone to load on their packs.

“I have items worn recently by the subject. Take a bag, give your dogs the scent. Remember to use the subject’s name. Refresh the scent whenever you think your dog may be confused, or if he or she becomes distracted or disinterested. Remember the boundaries of your sector. Use your compass, check in by radio. Trust your dogs. Good luck.”

She felt their excitement, and the nerves, as well as a sense of competition. Eventually, if they made it as a unit, the competition would shift into cooperation and trust.

“When you get back, all dogs who didn’t find our victim need a short find, to keep up morale. Remember, it’s not just your dogs being tested. You’re honing your skills, too.”

She watched them spread out, separate, and nodded in approval at the way each gave his or her dog the scent, the command.

Her own dogs whined as the others scented the air, began to roam.

“We’ll play later,” she promised them. “These guys need to do it on their own.”

She sat, noted the time, wrote it in the assignment log.

They were a good group, she thought, and should make a solid unit. She’d started with eight, but over the past ten weeks three had dropped out. Not a bad percentage, she mused, and what was left was tight, was dedicated. If they pushed through the next five weeks, they’d be a good asset to the program.

She picked up her radio, checked the frequency, then contacted Sylvia. “They’re off and running. Over.”

“Well, I hope they don’t find me too soon. I’m enjoying my book. Over.”

“Don’t forget. Sprained ankle, dehydration, mild shock. Over.”

“Got it. But until then, I’m going to eat my apple and read. See you when they haul me back. Over and out.”

To keep her own dogs occupied, and give them some consolation for not being able to play the find game with the others, Fiona ran them through their paces on the agility training equipment.

It may have looked comical to an outsider—cheerful Labs climbing up and down the ladder of a child’s sliding board, or taking that slide on command. But the skill taught and reinforced a search dog’s ability to cope with difficult footing. The fact that they enjoyed it, as well as balancing on the teeter-totter, negotiating along narrow planks, maneuvering through the open drums she’d formed into tunnels, added a bonus.

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 re scue?”

“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 giving 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.”

“Good to know.”

“Unless I told him to.” She tipped her head back, smiled again. Then gave Simon another gentle shove. “Push back. It’s okay.”

“It better be.” He nudged her again, and this time the dog used his head to nudge Simon.

“Fun.” She wrapped her arms around Simon again, nuzzled. “He reads me,” she said. “If I was afraid now, he’d know it. But he sees, hears, senses I’m fine, I’m good with you. That’s what I’m trying to get through your head about Jaws and your reactions, what you transmit. Your mood influences his behavior, so—”

She broke off when she looked up again into eyes that were very close, and very focused.

“What mood do you think I’m transmitting now?”

“Funny. It’s just an exercise,” she began.

“Okay. Let’s try advanced class.”

He closed his mouth over hers, very firm and just a little rough.

She’d known he’d be just a little rough. Impatient, direct, with no testing moves, no easy flirtation.

She didn’t resist. It would be a waste of time, effort and a very hot and healthy kiss. Instead she slid her hands up his back, let herself drop into it, let herself enjoy the warring sensations of the moment.

Soft lips, hard hands, firm body—and just a hint of chocolate on the tongue that tangled with hers.

And when she felt herself dropping close to the point of no return, when climbing back would be painful, she worked her hand between them and pushed against his chest.

He didn’t stop. Her heart went from flutter to pound. Intractable, she thought, and wished she didn’t find that quality in him quite so exciting.

She pushed again, harder.

He eased back, just a little, so their eyes met again. “Grade that.”

“Oh, you definitely aced it. Congratulations. But playtime’s over. I have some lesson planning and... things to get done. So...”

“So, I’ll see you.”

“Yes. Ah, keep working on the basics. Throw sticks. Lots of sticks.”

“Right.”

When he walked out, she blew out a breath, looked at Newman. “Wow.”

His own fault, Simon thought as he loaded Jaws into the car. Or hers, he decided. It was really more her fault. Wrapping around him, rubbing in, smiling up.

What the hell was a man supposed to do?

He hadn’t expected her to be so receptive. To just give, to just open until that subtle, almost quiet sexy peeled back a corner and showed him all the heat beneath.

Now he wanted it. And her.

He glanced at the dog, currently in bliss with his nose stuck out the two-inch opening of the window.

“I should’ve just sold her the damn cabinet.”

He flipped the radio up to blast, but it didn’t swing his mind away from Fiona.

He decided to try his own “exercise,” and began to design a wine cabinet suited to her, in his head.

Maybe he’d build it; maybe he wouldn’t. But it was a damn sure bet he’d end up going back to peel up another corner.

Seven

A trip to the vet invariably included comedy and drama, and required persistence, stamina and a flexible sense of humor. To simplify, Fiona always scheduled her three dogs together at the end of office hours.

The system also gave her and the vet, her friend Mai Funaki, a chance to recover and unwind after the triple deed was done.

At a scant five-two, Mai appeared to be a delicate lotus blossom, a romantic anime character brought to life with ebony hair curved at her gilded cheeks and fringing flirtatiously above exotic onyx eyes. Her voice, a melodious song, calmed both animals and humans in the course of her work.

Her pretty, long-fingered hands soothed and healed. And were as strong as a bricklayer’s.

She’d been known to drink a two-hundred-pound man under the table, and could swear the air blue in five languages.

Fiona adored her.

In the exam room of her offices in her home just outside Eastsound, Mai helped Fiona heft seventy-five pounds of trembling Peck onto the table. The dog, who had once courageously negotiated smoldering rubble to locate victims after an earthquake in Oregon, who tirelessly searched for the lost, the fallen and the dead through bitter winds, flooding rain and scorching heat, feared the needle.

“You’d think I hammered spikes into his brain. Come on now, Peck.” Mai stroked, even as she checked joints and fur and skin. “Man up.”

Peck kept his head turned away, refusing to look at her. Instead he stared accusingly into Fiona’s eyes. She swore she could see tears forming.

“I think he was tortured by the Spanish Inquisition in another life.”

While Mai examined his ears, Peck visibly shuddered.

“At least he suffers in silence.” Mai turned Peck’s head toward her. He turned it away again. “I’ve got this Chihuahua I have to muzzle for any exam. He’d eat my face off if he could.”

She took the dog’s head firmly to examine his eyes, his teeth.

“Big healthy boy,” she crooned. “Big handsome boy.”

Peck stared at a spot over her shoulder and shivered.

“Okay,” Mai said to Fiona. “You know the drill.”

Fiona took Peck’s head in her hands. “It’s only going to take a second,” she told him as Mai moved behind and out of eye line. “We can’t have you getting sick, right?”

She talked, rubbed, smiled, as Mai pinched some skin and slid the needle in.

Peck moaned like a dying man.

“There. All done.” Mai walked back to Peck’s head, held up her hands to show them empty of all tools of torture. Then she laid a treat on the table.

He refused it.

“Could be poisoned,” Fiona pointed out. “Anything in this room is suspect.” She signaled the dog down, and he couldn’t jump off the table fast enough. Then he stood, facing the wall, ignoring both women.

“It’s because I cut off his balls. He’s never forgiven me.”

“No, I really think it all comes down from Newman. He fears, so they all fear. Anyway, two down, one to go.”

The women stared at each other. “We should’ve taken him first. The worst first. But I just couldn’t face it.”

“I bought a really nice bottle of Pinot.”

“Okay. Let’s do this thing.”

They released Peck into the yard where he could exchange horrors with Bogart and seek sympathy with Mai’s one-eyed bulldog, Patch, and her three-legged beagle-hound mix, Chauncy.

Together they approached Fiona’s car where Newman lay on the backseat, nose pressed tight in the corner, body limp as overcooked pasta.

“Heads or tails?” Fiona asked.

“You take the head. God help us.”

He squirmed, tried to roll into a ball, leaped over the seats, then back again. He slithered like a snake in an attempt to wedge himself under the seat.

Then, unable to escape, went limp again, forcing the two women to carry his dead dog weight into the examining room.

“Fuck me, Fee. Couldn’t you raise Poms?”

“He could be a face-eating Chihuahua.”

“Please tell me you got his weight at home because there’s no way we’re getting him on the scale.”

“Eighty-two.”

It took a solid and sweaty thirty minutes as Newman resisted every second.

“You know,” Fiona panted, using her own body to hold Newman’s down, “this dog would walk through fire for me. Through fire over broken glass while meteors rained out of the sky. But I can’t get him to just hold the hell still for a routine exam. And he knew. The minute I called them to get in the car, he knew. How many times do I put them in the car for work, for play, for whatever? How does he know? I had to get the others in first—they’re more easily fooled. Then drag him. It’s humiliating,” she said to Newman. “For both of us.”

“Thank all the gods, we’re done.”

Mai didn’t bother to offer the treat as Newman would very likely spit it in her face. “Cut him loose, and let’s open that wine.”

Mai’s pretty bungalow sat with its back to the sea. Once it had been part of a farm, then the house had morphed into a B&B. When Mai and her husband moved to Orcas, he’d wanted to farm.

Mai moved her Tacoma practice to the island, pleased to work at home, content with the slower lifestyle while her husband raised chickens, goats, berries and field greens.

It took less than four years for the bloom to wear off on the gentleman farmer, whose next brainstorm had been buying a bar and grill in Jamaica.

“Tim’s moving to Maine,” Mai said as they carried the wine out to the yard. “He’s going to be a lobsterman.”

“Not kidding?”

“Not. I have to say, he lasted longer than I expected with the bar.” Even as they sat, dogs hurried over to vie for attention. Tails wagged, tongues licked. “Sure, now we’re pals.”

Mai passed out the biscuits she’d brought with her.

“They love you—and the treats aren’t poison except in the exam room.”

“Yeah, all’s forgiven. I’m sorry I couldn’t run the base for the search on the little boy. I had that emergency surgery, and I just couldn’t postpone it.”

“It’s no problem. That’s why we have alternates. They’re a nice family. The kid’s a champ.”

“Yeah?” Mai sighed. “You know, it’s probably—certainly—best that Tim and I put off having kids. Can you imagine? But my clock’s ticking double time. I know I’m going to end up adopting another dog or cat or other mammal to compensate.”

“You could adopt an actual human child. You’d be a great mom.”

“I would. But... I still have a tiny crack of a sliver of hope that I could start a family with a man, give the kid the full complement of parents. Which means I have to actually date, and have sex. And when I think of men, dating and sex, I remember how horny I am. I’m considering naming my vibrator Stanley.”

“Stanley?”

“Stanley is kind, and thinks only of my pleasure. I’m still winning our dry spell contest, I assume. Fourteen months.”

“Nine, but I don’t think that one time really counts. It was lousy sex.”

“Lousy sex is still sex. It may be a crap contest to win, but there are rules. And while there will always be Stanley, I’m seriously considering other options.”

“Girls? Club trolling? Personal ads?”

“All weighed and rejected. Don’t laugh.”

“Okay. What?”

“I’ve been checking out the Internet dating sites. I even have a profile and application ready to go. I just haven’t hit send. Yet.”

“I’m not laughing, but I’m not convinced. You’re gorgeous, smart, funny, interesting, a woman with a wide range of interests. If you’re serious about getting back into the dating arena, you need to put yourself out there more.”

Nodding, Mai took a long sip of wine, then leaned forward. “Fee, you may not have noticed, but we live on a small island off the coast of Washington state.”

“I’ve heard rumors.”

“The population of this small island is also relatively small. The single-male element of that population, considerably smaller. Why else are two gorgeous, smart and sexy women sitting here on a pretty evening drinking wine with dogs?”

“Because we like to?”

“We do. Yes, we do. But we also like the company of men. At least I think we do as it’s been some time. And I believe I’m correct in saying we both enjoy good, healthy, safe sex.”

“This is correct, which is why I really think that one time shouldn’t count in the contest.”

“Old business.” Mai flicked it away. “I’ve made a considerable if unscientific study of that single-male element of our island population. For my own purposes, I have to eliminate males under the age of twenty-one and over the age of sixty-five. Both boundaries are a stretch as I’m thirty-four, but beggars, choosers. The pool’s shallow, Fee. It’s pretty freaking shallow.”

“I can’t argue with that. But if you add in tourists and seasonals, it’s a little deeper.”

“I do have some small hope for summer, but meanwhile? I took a hard look at James.”

“James? Our James.”

“Yes, our James. Mutual interests, age appropriate. Low spark, admittedly, but you work with what you’ve got. The trouble is he’s got his eye on Lori, and there’s no poaching within the unit. There is one intriguing possibility on island. Single, age appropriate, dog owner, very attractive. Creative type. A little taciturn for my taste, but there’s that beggars, choosers again.”

“Oh,” Fiona said, and took a drink.

“Simon Doyle. Sylvia carries his work. Wood artist, furniture.”

“Mmm,” Fiona said this time, and took another drink.

Mai’s eyes narrowed. “You’re looking at him? Damn it, he might be all that’s standing between me and HeartLine-dot-com.”

“I’m not looking. Not exactly. He’s a client. I’m working with his dog.”

“Cute dog.”

“Very. Hot guy.”

“Very. Look, if you’re going to call dibs, call it, because I have plans to make. I have a serious need to get laid.”

“I’m not calling dibs on a man. Jesus, Mai. He’s really not the kind of guy you tend toward.”

“Shit,” Mai said, and took a slug of wine. “He’s alive, single, within the age boundaries and, as far as I know, not a serial killer.”

“He kissed me.”

“Two scoops of shit. Okay, give me a minute to hate you.” Mai drummed her fingers on the table. “All right, hate time’s done. Sexy kiss or friendly kiss?”

“It wasn’t friendly. He’s not especially friendly. I don’t think he likes people that much. He stopped by so I could work with Jaws. I was running the mock search with the Bellingham unit. So I invited him to stay, mix, have some brownies. I doubt he said five words to anybody. Except for Syl. He likes Syl.”

“Maybe he’s shy. Shy can be sweet.”

“I don’t think so, and sweet’s not a word I’d use in the same sentence with Simon. He’s an exceptional kisser, and that’s a plus.”

“Bitch, don’t make me hurt you.”

Fiona grinned. “And I don’t need a relationship, but I do require some basic conversation when I sleep with a guy.”

“You had conversation with the one-time guy nine months ago. Look where that got you.”

“That’s true.” Fiona was forced to sigh in remembrance. “But I’m not calling dibs. If the opportunity presents, help yourself.”

“No, it’s too late. He’s out of the running. HeartLine-dot-com, here I come.”

“We need to go on vacation.”

Mai choked out a laugh. “Yeah, sure.”

“No, I mean it. You, me, Syl. A girl trip, a girl thing. A spa,” she decided, inspired. “A long girl spa weekend.”

“Don’t toy with me, Fiona. I’m a woman on the edge.”

“Which is why we need a break.”

“Question?” Mai held up a finger. “When’s the last time you took a vacation—even a long weekend type vacation?”

“A couple years maybe. Okay, probably three. Which just cements the point.”

“And with your work, mine, Syl’s, the responsibility for the animals, just how do we manage it?”

“We’ll figure it out. We know how to plan things, how to organize.” Now that the idea popped out, Fiona wanted it like Christmas. “Massages and facials and mud baths, room service and sparkly adult beverages. No work, responsibility or schedules.”

“It may be better than sex.”

“It’s possible. What we’ll do is check our schedules and find the best time to clear three days. We can clear three days, Mai. We all have friends who’ll take care of our animals for that length of time. How often have we done it for them?”

“Countless times. Where?”

“I don’t know. Close so we don’t spend too much time on travel. I’ll start researching, and I’ll get Syl on board. What do you say?”

Mai raised her glass. “I am so in.”

Determined to seal the deal, Fiona swung by Sylvia’s before heading home.

Pansies spilled out of tubs in front of the tranquil bayside house. Fiona knew the greenhouse would be crowded with flowers and vegetables and herbs her stepmother babied like children, and would soon tranfer to her extensive gardens.

As much at home there as in her own cabin, Fiona opened the bright red door and called out, “Syl?”

“Back here!” Sylvia called out as Oreo raced to say hello. “In the great room.”

“I was just at Mai’s.” Fiona wound her way through the house where Sylvia had lived with Fiona’s father throughout their marriage. Like her shop, it was a bright, fascinating, eclectic mix of styles and art and color.

She found Sylvia on her yoga mat mimicking the twisting pose of the instructor on the TV. “Just winding down from the day,” Sylvia told her. “Nearly done. Did you bring the boys?”

“They’re in the car. I can’t stay.”

“Oh, why don’t you? I’m thinking of making couscous.”

“Tempting.” Not in the least, Fiona thought. “But I’ve got a project. Mai’s horny and her biological clock’s ticking. She’s thinking of trying one of those online dating services.”

“Really?” Sylvia untwisted, then twisted in the other direction. “Which one?”

“I think she said HeartLine-dot-com.”

“They’re supposed to be pretty good.”

“I don’t... Have you used that kind of thing?”

“Not yet. Maybe never. But I’ve looked around.” Sylvia lowered to the floor, folded.

“Oh. Huh. Well, anyway, what do you say the three of us take a long weekend and go to a spa?”

“Gosh, let me think.” Sylvia unfolded. “It’ll take me five minutes to pack.”

“Really?”

“I can do it in four if pressed. Where are we going?”

“I don’t know yet. It’s part of the project. I need to check the schedule, refine it with yours and Mai’s and find us a destination.”

“I’ve got that. One of my artists has a connection at a spa. Supposed to be fabulous. It’s near Snoqualmie Falls.”

“Seriously?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Sylvia lay back in corpse. “Tranquillity Spa and Resort. I’ll take care of it—but you might want to check out the website to make sure it’s what you have in mind.”

“Do they have massages, room service and a pool?”

“I can pretty much guarantee that.”

“It’s perfect.” She did a quick dance in place. “God, this is going to be great.”

“Can’t miss. But what brought this on?”

“I told you. Mai’s hormones.”

“And?”

Fiona walked to the window to look at the water. “I really haven’t been sleeping all that well since Davey told me about the murders. It’s just... there. On my mind. Keeping busy tamps it down, then when I’m not, it’s just there. A break would be good, I think. And a break with two of my favorite women, the best. Plus I’m feeling conflicted about Simon since he kissed me.”

“What?” Sylvia’s eyes popped open as she sat up. “You tried to sneak that by me. When did he kiss you?”

“The other day, after you and the others left. It was just an impulse of the moment, and the circumstances. And yes, before you ask, it was very, very good.”

“I suspected it would be. What happened next?”

“He went home.”

“Why?”

“Probably because I told him to.”

“Oh, Fee, I worry about you. I do.” Shaking her head, Sylvia rose, reached for her bottle of water.

“I wasn’t ready for the kiss, much less any follow-through.”

Sylvia sighed. “See? No wonder I worry about you. Not being ready is part of the thrill. Or should be. The unexpected and the passionate.”

“I don’t think unexpected works for me. At least not right now. Who knows, maybe it will after a spa break.”

“Clear your schedule and we’re gone. I can work mine around yours and Mai’s.”

“You’re the best.” Fiona gave her a quick hug. “I’m going to see what classes I can juggle. I’ll e-mail you and Mai.”

“Wait. I’m going to get you some of this tea. It’s all natural, and it should help relax you, help you sleep. I want you to take a long bath, drink some tea, put on some quiet music. And give those meditation exercises I showed you a chance,” she added as she got the tin out of a cupboard in the adjoining kitchen.

“Okay. Promise. I’m already relaxed just thinking about the spa.” She moved in for another hug. “I love you.”

“I love you back.”

She should have thought of it before, Fiona realized. An indulgent break with good friends was the perfect prescription for restlessness and stress. Then again she rarely felt the need for a break as she considered her life on the island the best of all possible worlds.

She had independence, reasonable financial security, a home and work she loved, the companionship of her dogs. What else was there?

She remembered the hot, unexpected kiss in her kitchen and Simon’s rough, proprietary hands on her.

There was that, she admitted. At least now and again there was that. She was, after all, a healthy woman with normal needs and appetites.

And she could admit she’d considered the possibility of a round or two with Simon—before he’d shut that down in no uncertain terms. Before he’d opened it up again. Blew the lid off it again, she corrected.

Which only served to prove any sort of relationship with him promised to be complicated and frustrating and uncertain.

“Probably best to leave it alone,” she said to the dogs. “Really, why ask for trouble? We’re good, right? We’re good just as we are. You and me, boys,” she added and had tails thumping.

Her headlights slashed through the dark as she turned onto her drive—and reminded her she’d forgotten to leave the porch light on again. In a few weeks, the sun would stay longer and the air would warm. Long evening walks and playtime in the yard, porch sitting.

The approach had the dogs shifting and tails swishing in excitement. The trauma of the exam room was forgotten in the simple pleasure of coming home.

She parked, got out to open the back. “Make your rounds, boys.” She hurried inside to hit the lights before making her own. She checked water bowls and the feeder, got a smile from her new planters.

While the dogs circled outside, stretched their legs, emptied their bladders, she opened the freezer and grabbed the first frozen dinner that came to hand.

While it buzzed up she started checking her phone messages. She’d set up her laptop, she decided, go over the schedule while she ate, find the best hole, check out the website Sylvia had recommended.

“Get the party started,” she murmured.

She took notes on her pad, saving or deleting messages as necessary.

“Ms. Bristow, this is Kati Starr. I’m a reporter with U.S. Report. I’m writing a story on the recent abduction murders of two women in California that seem to parallel those committed by George Allen Perry. As you were the only known victim to escape Perry, I’d like to speak with you. You can reach me at work, on my cell or via e-mail. My contacts are—”

Fiona hit delete. “No way in hell.”

No reporters, no interviews, no TV cameras or mikes pushed at her. Not again.

Even as she took a breath the next message came on.

“Ms. Bristow, this is Kati Starr with U.S. Report following up on my earlier call. I’m approaching deadline, and it’s very important that I speak with you as soon as—”

Fiona hit delete again.

“Screw you and your deadline,” she murmured.

She let the dogs in, comforted by their presence. Dinner, such as it was, didn’t hold much appeal, but she ordered herself to sit down, to eat, to do exactly what she’d planned to do with her evening before the reporter flooded her mind with memories and worries.

She booted up her laptop, poked at chicken potpie. To boost her mood, she checked the resort’s website first—and in moments was cruising on anticipatory bliss.

Hot stone massages, paraffin wraps, champagne and caviar facials. She wanted them all. She wanted them now.

She took the virtual tour, purring over the indoor pool, the posttreatment meditation rooms, the shops, the gardens, the lovely appointments in the guest rooms. That included, she thought, a two-story, three-bedroom “villa.”

She closed one eye, glanced at the cost. Winced.

But split three ways... it would still sting like hellfire.

But it had its own hot tub, and, oh God, fireplaces in the bathrooms.

In. The. Bathrooms.

And the views of the waterfall, the hills, the gardens...

Impossible, she reminded herself. Maybe when she won the lottery.

“It’s a nice dream,” she told the dogs. “So, now we know where. Let’s figure out when.”

She brought up her class schedule, calculated, tried some juggling, re calculated, shifted.

Once she’d settled on the two best possibilities, she e-mailed Sylvia and Mai.

“We’ll make it work,” she decided, and shifted over to check her incoming e-mail.

She found one from the reporter.

Ms. Bristow:

I haven’t been able to reach you by phone. I found this contact on the website for your canine training service. As I explained, I’m writing a story on the California abduction-murders which echo the Perry homicides. As you were a key witness for the prosecution in the Perry trial that resulted in his conviction, your comments would be very valuable.

I can’t write a salient or accurate story on the Perry angle without including your experiences, and the details of the murder of Gregory Norwood, which resulted in Perry’s capture. I would prefer to speak with you directly before the story goes to press.

Fiona deleted the e-mail, including the list of contacts.

Then simply laid her head down on the table.

She was entitled to say no. Entitled to turn her back on that horrible time. She was entitled to refuse to be fodder for yet another story on death and loss.

Reliving all that wouldn’t, couldn’t bring Greg back. It wouldn’t help those two women or their grieving families.

She’d started her life over, and she was damn well entitled to her privacy.

She pushed herself up, shut down the laptop.

“I’m going to take that long bath, drink that stupid tea. And you know what? We’re going to book that damn villa. Life’s too damn short.”

Eight

Though her puppy classes invariably kept Fiona’s mood up, tension lingered, an endless echo of memories and loss.

Kati Starr, persistent if nothing else, called shortly after eight a.m.

One glance at the caller ID had Fiona letting the machine take it. She deleted it without listening, but the call itself lodged in the back of her neck like a brick.

She reminded herself her clients deserved her full attention.

Simon was late. Of course. He pulled in while the rest of the class ran through the basics.

“Just pick it up where we are,” she said coolly. “If we’re not interfering too much with your busy schedule.”

She moved away to work with each of her students individually, demonstrating how to discourage the exuberant Great Dane pup, who promised to be massive, from jumping up—and the perky schnauzer to stop crotch sniffing.

When they began to work off leash, she sighed as Jaws raced away to chase a squirrel—and led a stampede.

“Don’t chase them!” Fiona pushed a hand through her hair as Jaws did his level best to climb the tree the squirrel skittered up. “Call them back. Use your return command, then order your dog to sit. I want all the dogs back to their handlers and sitting.”

What she wanted took time and persistence—and some hands-on.

She reviewed sit and stay, individually and as a group, careful to keep her tone detached whenever she had to address Simon.

With leashes on, she worked on the stop and drop.

The class that usually amused and warmed her had a headache carving dully just above the brick at the base of her neck.

“Keep up the good work.” She ordered up a smile. “And remember: positive reinforcement, practice and play.”

As always, there were comments, questions, a story or two that had to be shared with her by one of the clients. Fiona listened, answered, stroked and petted. But felt none of her usual pleasure.

When Simon lingered, letting Jaws off leash to run with her dogs, Fiona decided it was fine. She’d deal with him, and eliminate a minor problem on her list.

“You’ve got a bug up your ass today,” he said before she could speak.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. And you look like hell.”

“You have to stop throwing all these pearls at my feet.”

“Did that guy in California kill someone else?”

“I don’t know. Why would I know? It has nothing to do with me.” She jammed her hands into the pockets of her hooded jacket. “I’m sorry for the women, for their families, but it has nothing to do with me.”

“Who’s arguing? You weren’t listening, not really, when Larry started on about how his supermutt figured out how to open doors or when Diane showed you the picture of her toddler drawing with crayons on the bulldog. I’d say that’s your version of having a bitch on. So, what’s the deal?”

“Listen, Simon, just because I kissed you, sort of—”

“Sort of ?”

She set her teeth. “That doesn’t mean I’m obliged to share the details of my life with you, or explain the reasons for my moods.”

“I’m still stuck on ‘sort of,’ and wondering what would be actually.”

“You’ll have to keep wondering. We’re neighbors and you’re currently a client. That’s it.”

“A definite bitch on. Well, enjoy.” He whistled for his dog, which naturally brought the whole pack.

When Simon bent down, ruffled and praised, Fiona sighed again. “He’s doing well on the return. He doesn’t get stay yet, but he’s doing well in most areas.”

“He hasn’t eaten anything I needed to worry about in the last couple days.” He clipped on the leash. “See you.”

He got halfway to the car when she called his name.

She hadn’t planned to, couldn’t think why she had. And yet...

“Do you want to take a walk? I need to walk.”

“A walk? Where?”

She gestured. “One of the perks of living in the woods is being able to walk in them.”

He shrugged, crossed back to her.

“You’d better leash him,” she said. “Until you’re confident he’ll obey the stop command. He might take off after a rabbit or deer and get lost. Come on, boys, take a walk.”

Her dogs fell in happily, then ranged ahead. Jaws pulled on the leash.

“Wait,” Fiona ordered, sympathizing. The dogs paused, continuing at a slower pace at her signal when Jaws caught up.

“He thinks he’s one of the big guys. It’s good for him to get out like this, explore new territories, respect the leash, respond to you.”

“Is this another lesson?”

“Just making conversation.”

“Do you ever talk about anything other than dogs?”

“Yes.” Irritated, she hunched her shoulders, lapsed into momentary silence. “I can’t think of anything right now. God, I wish spring would hurry up. There, that’s other than. I can bitch about the weather. But it’s a nice day, so it’s hard to. Still I wish it would get warmer faster, and I want the sun to stay out till ten. I want to plant a garden and chase the deer and rabbits out of it.”

“Why don’t you just put up a fence?”

“Then I don’t have the entertainment value of chasing the deer and rabbits, do I? They’re not afraid of the dogs, which is my own fault because I trained the boys not to chase—oops. Dog talk. I love the way it smells in here.”

She took a deep breath of pine, grateful the headache had backed off a bit. “I love the way it looks—the lights, the shadows. I thought I’d be a photographer, because I like light and shadows, and people’s faces and the way they move. But I don’t take very good, or interesting, pictures. Then I thought I’d be a writer, but I bored myself so I suspect I’d have flopped at that one. Except I like to write—for the blog or the newsletter, or little articles about, you know, the thing I’m not talking about in this conversation. Then I thought I could coach track or be a trainer but... I didn’t really have a center, I guess. I’m not sure you’re required to have a center when you’re twenty. Why don’t you say something?”

“Mostly because you haven’t shut up.”

She blew out a breath. “That’s true. I’m babbling useless conversation because I don’t want to think. And I realize I asked you to come so I wouldn’t think or start brooding. I don’t have a bitch on. I have a brood on, and it’s entirely different.”

“Comes off the same to me.”

“You’re a hardass, Simon. That shouldn’t be appealing to me.”

They moved through a clearing where the trees soared overhead, beefy giants that sighed like the surf where their tops met sky.

“Why Orcas?” she asked him. “Of all the places to live.”

“It’s quiet. I like being near the water. Hold this.” He shoved the leash into her hand and walked over to a large, twisted stump, heaved half out of the needle-strewn ground.

While she watched, he circled it, crouched, knocked on it.

“Is this your property?”

“Yeah. We haven’t walked that far.”

“I want this.” His eyes, the color of old gold in the luminous streams and dapples of light, shifted briefly to hers. “Can I have this?”

“You want... the stump?”

“Yes. I’ll pay for it if you want to be greedy.”

“How much? I’m going on a spa vacation.” She walked closer trying to see what he saw.

“Pee somewhere else.” He gave Jaws a nudge as the pup prepared to squat. “Ten bucks.”

She pff ’d.

“It’s just sitting here. You’re not using it, and I’m going to have to yank it out and haul it off. Twenty, but that’s it.”

“Replace it. Plant a tree in the hole and we’re good.”

“Done.”

“What’ll you do with it?”

“Something.”

She studied it, circled it as he had, but still only saw the twisted remains of a tree broken off in some long-ago storm. “I wish I could see like that. I wish I could look at a tree stump and see something creative.”

He glanced up again. “You looked at that dog and saw something.”

She smiled. “I think that was an actual nice thing to say. Now I guess I have to be sorry for being mean to you.”

“You have a strange scale, Fiona. ‘Sort of’ kissed me when you were locked on like a clamp. Being mean when you told me to mind my own business.”

“I yelled at you in my head.”

“Oh, well, now I’m crushed.”

“I can be mean. Harsh and mean, and I can be okay with it. But it has to be justified. You just asked what was wrong. You can come back and get the stump anytime.”

“Next couple of days.” He straightened, glanced around to orient himself. Then he looked at her. “You might as well spill it.”

“Let’s keep walking.” She held the leash, bringing Jaws to heel, letting him range, bringing him back while they wound through the trees, skirted the curve of a quiet creek.

“This reporter’s hounding me,” she began. “Calling, e-mailing. I haven’t talked to her—just deleted all the messages.”

“What does she want?”

“To talk to me about Perry—in connection with the two women in California. She’s writing a story on it. That’s her job; I get that. But it’s not mine to talk to her, to feed that fire. The only victim who escaped—that’s how she put it. I’m not a victim, and it just pisses me off to be called one. I had enough of that when it all happened.”

“Then keep deleting.”

“Sounds simple—and I will—but it’s not simple.”

The headache was gone, she realized, but the anger and frustration that had caused it remained lodged like splinters.

Small, sharp and nasty.

“When it happened, the prosecution and the cops kept me away from the press as much as possible. They didn’t want me giving interviews—and God knows, I didn’t want to give them. But a story like that? It’s got juice, right? They kept calling, or talking to people who knew me—people who knew people who knew me. Squeezing the juice.” She paused, glanced at him again. “I guess you’d understand that, from your relationship with Nina Abbott.”

“Relationship’s a pretty word for it.”

“And now you like quiet islands.”

“One doesn’t have much of a connection with the other. And this isn’t my brood.”

None of her business, she thought. Well, he had a point. “All right. After Greg, it started up again. Then the trial. I don’t want any part of what’s happening now. So I’m angry all over again, and that makes me feel sick inside. Because twelve before me, and Greg after me, died. And I didn’t. I barely had a scratch, but they say I’m a victim or they say I’m a heroine. Neither’s true.”

“No, neither’s true. You’re a survivor, and that’s harder.”

She stopped, stared at him. “Why do you get it? That’s the mystery.”

“It’s all over you. It’s in your eyes. So calm, so clear. Maybe because they’ve already seen so much. You’ve got wounds. You live with them. That shouldn’t be appealing to me.”

She might have smiled at the way he tossed her own words back at her, but they made her stomach flutter. “What have we got here, Simon?”

“Probably just some heat.”

“Probably. I haven’t had sex in almost ten months.”

“Okay, it’s getting hotter.”

Now she laughed. “God, you’ve actually made me feel better. But what I meant was I haven’t had sex in ten months, so waiting longer isn’t such a big deal. We both live on island—have a connection with Sylvia. I like your dog, and right now I’m part of his team. I think I need to figure out if sleeping with you would just be a nice release, or cause too many complications.”

“It wouldn’t be nice. Nice is cookies and milk.”

“Confident. I do like confidence. Since I’m not going to have sex with you in the woods, especially since we’ve only got about twenty minutes before the sun sets, I think we’re safe. So why don’t you give me a little preview of possible coming attractions?”

He reached behind her, wrapped her hair around his fist. “You like living on the edge?”

“No, I really don’t. I like stability and order, so this is unusual for me.”

He gave her hair a tug, enough to lift her face, to bring his mouth within a breath of hers. “You’re looking for nice.”

“I’m not really looking at all.”

“Me either,” he said, and closed the distance.

She’d asked for it, and thought herself prepared. She’d expected the fast strike, that immediate explosion of heat and lust and want that flashed through the brain and body.

Instead, he came in easy, disarming her with a slow kiss, the sort that shimmered through the system just before it fogged the brain. She sighed into it, lifting her arms to link them around his neck as he tempted her to offer more.

As she did, he pulled her deeper, gradually building that heat they both acknowledged, degree by degree, so when the strike came, she was defenseless.

The world snapped off—the woods, the sky, the deepening shadows. All that was left was the wonder of mouth against mouth, body against body, and the floodwall of need rising in her.

Even as he started to pull back, she dragged him back and dived again, dived deep.

She frayed his control. That combination of yielding and demand tore at his resolve to set both tone and pace. She reached inside him somehow, opening doors he’d determined to keep locked until he was no longer sure who led the way.

And when he intended to step back, regain some distance, she lured him back.

Soft lips, lithe body and a scent that was somehow both earthy and sweet. Like her taste—neither one thing nor the other, and utterly irresistible.

He lost more ground than he gained before the pup began to bark—wild joy—and scrabble at his legs in an attempt to nudge through and join the fun.

This time they stepped back together.

Fiona laid a hand on Jaws’s head. “Sit,” she ordered. “Good dog.”

Not so calm now, Simon thought as he looked at her eyes. Not so clear.

“I can’t think of a single sensible thing to say,” she told him. She signaled for her dogs, then handed Simon the pup’s leash. “We should start back. Um, he’s doing better on the leash. This is new territory for him, and there are a lot of fun distractions, but he’s responding pretty well.”

Back in her safe zone, he thought, with dog talk. Curious how she’d handle it, he simply walked along in silence.

“I’d like to work with him a little on some other skills and behaviors. Maybe an extra half hour in ten- or fifteen-minute sessions a week. A couple of weeks, no charge. Then if you like the way it’s going, we can discuss a fee.”

“Like a preview of possible coming attractions?”

She slid a glance in Simon’s direction, then away again. “You could say that. He learns quickly, and has a good personality for... And this is silly. It’s cowardly. I wanted to kiss you again to see if the other day was just a fluke, which, obviously, it was not. There’s a strong physical attraction, which I haven’t felt for anyone in a long time.”

“Just under ten months?”

He watched her color come up, but then she smiled. Not sheepish but amused. “Longer actually. To spare us both the embarrassment of details, that particular incident was a failure on several levels. But it does serve as a baseline, and causes me to wonder if the just-under-ten-months factor is part of the reason for the attraction. It also makes me cautious. I’m not shy about sex, but I am wary of repeating what turned out to be a mistake.”

“You’d rather be stable and ordered.”

She pushed her hands back in her pockets. “I talk too much and you listen too well. That’s a dangerous mix.”

“For who?”

“For the talker. See, you give the impression you don’t pay all that much attention, just aren’t interested enough. But you do pay attention. Not big on the interacting, but you take in the details. It’s kind of sneaky, really. I like you. Or at least I think I do. I don’t know much about you because you don’t talk about yourself. I know you have a dog because your mother gave him to you, which tells me you love your mother or fear her wrath. It’s probably a combination of both.”

They walked in silence for a full thirty seconds.

“Confirm or deny,” she insisted. “It can’t be a deep, dark secret.”

“I love my mother and prefer, when possible, to avoid her wrath.”

“There, that wasn’t so hard. How about your father?”

“He loves my mother and prefers, when possible, to avoid her wrath.”

“You realize, of course, that the less you say the more curious people get about you.”

“Fine. That can be good for business.”

“So, it’s a business. Your work.”

“People pay you, the government takes a cut. That’s business.”

She thought she had a handle on him now, even if it was a slippery one. “But it’s not business first or you’d have sold me that cabinet.”

He paused while Jaws found a stick and pranced along like a drum major at halftime. “You’re not letting that one go.”

“It was either a display of artistic temperament or bullheadedness. I suspect, in this case, the former, though I also suspect you’re no stranger to the latter. I’d still like to buy it, by the way.”

“No. You could use a new rocker for your porch. The one you have is ugly.”

“It’s not ugly. It’s serviceable. And it needs repainting.”

“The left arm is warped.”

She opened her mouth to deny it, then realized she wasn’t sure either way. “Maybe. But to turn this back on you, Mr. Mysteriosa, it only proves you notice detail.”

“I notice crappy workmanship and warped wood. I’ll trade you a rocker for the lessons, with the caveat you bust that ugly warped chair up for kindling.”

“Maybe it has sentimental value.”

“Does it?”

“No, I bought it at a yard sale a few years ago, for ten bucks.”

“Kindling. And you teach the dog something interesting.”

“That’s a deal.” As they came out of the woods, she looked up at the sky. “It’s cooling off. I could probably use the kindling. A nice fire, a glass of wine—of course I won’t be able to get the bottle out of a beautiful cabinet, but I’ll live. I won’t be inviting you in, either.”

“Do you think if I wanted to finish up what we started back there I’d wait for an invitation?”

“No,” she said after a moment. “I should find that arrogant and off-putting. I have no idea why I don’t. Why don’t you want to finish up what we started back there?”

He smiled at her. “You’ll be thinking about that, won’t you? I like your house.”

Baffled, she turned to study it as he was. “My house?”

“It’s small, a little fanciful and right for the spot. You should think about adding a solarium on the south face. It’d add some interest to the architecture, opening up your kitchen and bringing more light in. Anyway, do yourself a favor and don’t check your e-mail or messages. I’ll bring the dog and the chair back in a couple days.”

She frowned after him as he and the dog walked to the truck. Simon unclipped the leash, boosted Jaws inside, where he sat, proudly holding his stick.

He had plenty to keep him busy—his work, his dog, a half-baked idea of planting a garden just to see if he could. Every couple of days, depending on the weather, he’d take a drive with Jaws around the twisting, up-and-down roads of the island.

The routine, or the lack of routine, was exactly what he’d been after without fully realizing he’d been looking.

He enjoyed having his shop only steps away from the house where he could work as early or as late or as long as he pleased. And though it surprised him, he enjoyed having the dog for company, at work, on walks, on drives.

It pleased him to paint a flat-armed rocker a bold blue. Fiona’s coloring might be soft, subtle, but her personality was bright and bold. She’d look good in the chair.

She looked good.

He thought he’d haul the chair, and the dog, over to her place that afternoon. Unless he got caught up in work.

Luckily, he thought as he drank his morning coffee on the porch, there was plenty of work to get caught up in. He had the custom breakfront for a Tacoma client, another set of rockers. There was the bed he intended to make for himself, and the cabinet he’d started for Fiona.

Maybe.

He had to get the stump—and should go ahead and deal with that today. He’d check and see if Gary—fellow obedience school client and local farmer—was still willing to help him out with the chain and the Bobcat.

Whistling for the dog—and ridiculously pleased when Jaws responded by racing happily to him—Simon went back inside. He’d have his second cup of coffee while he checked the stories online in U.S. Report, as he’d done the last two days.

He’d begun to think the reporter had given up on the article, stymied by Fiona’s lack of cooperation.

But he found it this time, with the bold headline:

ECHOES OF FEAR

Photos of the two women—hardly more than girls, really, he thought—featured prominently in the lead of the story. As far as he could tell the reporter had done her homework there, with details of their lives, the last hours before they vanished and the ensuing search and discovery of their bodies.

He found the photo of Perry chilling. So ordinary—the middle-aged man next door. The history teacher or insurance salesman, the guy who grew tomatoes in the backyard. Anyone.

But it was the photo of Fiona that stopped him cold.

Her face smiled out, as did those of a dozen others, the ones who hadn’t escaped. Young, fresh, pretty.

It contrasted sharply with the file shot of her being hustled into the courthouse through the gauntlet of reporters. Her head down, her eyes dull, her face shattered.

The article added the details of her escape, her fiancé’s murder, and added briefly that Bristow could not be reached for comment.

“Didn’t stop you,” he murmured.

Still, people did what they did, he thought. Reporters reported. The smartest thing Fiona could do would be to ignore it.

The urge to call her irked him, actually brought an itch between his shoulder blades. He ordered himself to leave it—and her—alone.

Instead he called Gary and arranged for the stump removal. He gave Jaws ten minutes of fetch—they were both starting to get the hang of it—then went to work.

He focused on the breakfront. He thought it best not to do any further work on the cabinet, not until he could block the image of Fiona, that sick mix of fear and grief on her face, out of his head.

He took a short break in the early afternoon for a walk on the beach, where Jaws managed to find a dead fish.

After the necessary shower—he really had to remember to buy the damn dog a bathtub—Simon decided to load up some of his smaller items for Sylvia. He boxed cutting boards, weed pots, vases, bowls, then loaded them, along with the dog, into the truck.

He’d meet Gary, deal with the stump, and with the stock already loaded, have an excuse not to linger too long with Fiona.

It surprised him, and caused Jaws untold sorrow, when she wasn’t there. Nor were the dogs. Maybe she’d taken off for some solitude and distraction.

Jaws perked up when Gary arrived shortly with his chirpy border collie, Butch.

Gary, a cap over his grizzled hair, thick lenses over faded green eyes, watched the pups greet each other. “Coupla pips,” he said.

“At least. Fiona’s not home, but I told her I’d be by for the stump.”

“Got unit practice up in the park. They do a day of it once a month. Keep in tune, you know? Would’ve headed out at first light, most likely. Well, let’s get the Cat off the truck and go get you a stump. What the hell do you want it for?”

“You never know.”

“You sure don’t,” Gary agreed.

They lowered the ramp, and Gary backed the machine down. With the two dogs on board, they putted their way into the woods.

“I appreciate this, Gary.”

“Hell, it’s no big thing. Nice day to be out and about.”

It was, Simon thought. Warm enough, sunny, with little signs of encroaching spring showing themselves. The dogs panted in desperate joy, and Gary smelled—lightly—of fertilizer.

When they reached the stump, Gary hopped out, circled it, shoved his cap back to scratch his head. “This what you want?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we’ll get her. I knew a guy once made statues out of burl wood and a chain saw. This isn’t any stranger.”

They hauled out the chain, discussed strategies, baseball, dogs.

Simon tied the dogs to a tree to keep them out of harm’s way while Gary began maneuvering the machine.

It took an hour, and considerable sweat, re-angling, reversing, resetting the chain.

“Easy!” Simon called out, grinning widely. “You’ve got it now. She’s coming.”

“Cocksucker put up a fight.” Gary set the machine to idle when the stump rolled free. “You got yourself a stump.”

Simon ran his gloved hand over the body, along one of the thick roots. “Oh yeah.”

“Happiest I’ve seen you look since I met you. Let’s get her in the bucket.”

Once they were rolling out of the woods, the bucket full of stump, Gary glanced over. “I want you to let me know what you do with that thing.”

“I’m thinking a sink.”

Gary snorted. “You’re going to make a sink out of a stump?”

“The base of it, yeah. Maybe. If it cleans up like I think it will. I’ve got this round of burl wood could work as the basin. Add high-end contemporary fixtures, half a million coats of poly. Yeah, maybe.”

“That beats a chain saw and burl wood for strange. How much would something like that go for?”

“Depends, but if this works like I see it? I can sell it for about eight.”

“Eight hundred dollars for a stump sink?”

“Thousand.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Upscale Seattle gallery? Might get ten.”

“Ten thousand dollars for a sink. Fuck me sideways.”

Simon had to grin. “One of a kind. Some people think of it as art.”

“Some people have shit for brains. No offense.”

“Some people do—no offense taken. I’ll let you know when it’s finished, whatever it turns out to be. You can take a look for yourself.”

“I’m doing that. Wait until I tell Sue,” he said, speaking of his wife. “She won’t believe it.”

Nine

By the time he and Gary hauled the stump home and unloaded it, Simon considered skipping the trip to town and just staying put to play with his new toy. He’d already drafted half a dozen design possibilities in his head.

But the stock sat in his truck, packed and ready. If he didn’t go now, he’d have to go later, so he gave Jaws the thrill of another ride with the window half down, the dog’s snout pressed through the opening, and his ears flapping in the breeze.

“Why do you do that?” Simon wondered. When Jaws banged his tail against the seat in answer, Simon stuck his head out his own window. “Huh. Feels pretty good, actually. Next time you drive and I’ll catch the breeze.”

He tapped his fingers on the wheel in time with the radio while he refined and discarded more designs on the sketch pad in his head. The physical labor combined with the creative possibilities, the dog’s sheer and simple pleasure combined in a near perfect mix that had him grinning his way into the village. He’d finish his errand, go home, study his material, measure, then take a walk on the beach to let the ideas stew. Top it off with some design work over a beer, maybe a pizza, and it was a damn good day.

And that, he thought, was the answer to Fiona’s question.

Why Orcas?

Water drew him—kicky surf on beaches, wide river, busy creeks, quiet inlets. That yen had pulled him from Spokane to Seattle. That, he mused, and the city itself—its style, its openness to art. The nightlife, the movement, he supposed, had appealed at that stage of his life.

As Nina had, for a while.

He’d had good years there. Interesting, creative, successful years. But...

Too many people, too much movement and not enough space.

He liked the idea of an island. Self-contained, just a little apart and surrounded by water. Those wicked, twisting roads offered countless views of blue and green and the pretty boats that plied it, the green-knuckled clumps of rough land that seemed to float on it.

If he wanted more he could drive into a village, have a meal, watch the tourists. If he wanted solitude, he could stay home—his island on the island. Which, he admitted, was his usual choice.

And which, he thought with a glance toward Jaws, was why his mother had pushed a dog on him.

Watching those ears flap and the tail thump, he acknowledged his mother was right. Again.

He pulled in the back of Sylvia’s shop and raised the windows, leaving a three-inch crack. “You stay here. Don’t eat anything.” At the last minute he remembered distraction, reached over and took a chew toy from the glove box.

“Play with this,” he ordered.

When he carted in the first load, he caught the scent of home cooking—a little spicy—and spotted a Crock-Pot on the shipping counter.

He poked his head into the shop. Sylvia, pretty and bright in one of her colorful skirts, chatted up a customer while her clerk rang up sales for another.

Business was good, he thought. Another plus for the day.

He gave her a quick wave, started to back out.

“Simon! This is perfect timing. This is Simon Doyle,” she told the customer. “Simon, Susan’s over from Bainbridge Island. She’s interested in your wine cabinet.”

Sylvia gave him a blinding smile and a subtle “Come over here” signal.

This was the part he hated. But trapped, he stepped over.

“I was just telling Susan how lucky we are you moved to Orcas and let us display your work. Susan came over for the day with her sister. Also lucky for us.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” Susan offered a hand sporting a perfect French manicure and a canary diamond. “It’s beautiful work.”

“Thanks.” He rubbed his hand on his jeans. “Sorry. I’ve been working. I’m just dropping off some new pieces.”

“Anything as impressive as this?”

“Smaller pieces, actually.”

The sister wandered over, holding an earring up to each ear. “Susan, which pair?”

Susan angled her head, tipped it side to side. “Both. Dee, this is the man who made the bowl I’m buying for Cherry’s birthday, and this cabinet I can’t seem to walk away from. Simon Doyle.”

“I love the bowl.” Dee gave Simon’s hand a hard, fast shake. “But she saw it first. Sylvia said you might be persuaded to make another.”

“Simon’s just brought some new pieces in.”

“Really?” Dee glanced from Sylvia back to Simon. “Any bowls?”

“A couple,” he began.

“Why don’t I go unpack so you can take a look,” Sylvia suggested.

“That’d be great. First pick,” Dee said, giving her sister a little poke.

“There’s more in the truck. I’ll go—”

“No, no, I’ll take care of it.” Sylvia patted Simon’s arm, then gave it a warning squeeze. “Why don’t you tell Susan more about the cabinet? It’s our current showpiece,” she added, then glided off before Simon could find an escape hatch.

He hated the selling part, the feeling of being on display as much as the work.

“I love the tones of the wood.” Susan traced a hand down the grain. “And then the detail. It’s elegant without being ornate and showy.”

“It suits you.”

Her face lit up. “That’s a clever thing to say.”

“I’d tell you if it didn’t. You like the understated and the unique. You don’t mind if it’s impractical, but you’re happier if it serves a purpose.”

“God, you nailed her. Psychic woodworker,” Dee said with a laugh. “You’d better buy it, Susan. It’s karma.”

“Maybe it is.” Susan opened the doors again, slid open one of the drawers. “Smooth as silk. I appreciate good work.”

“Me too.” He noted that Sylvia had stocked it with some excellent wineglasses and a couple bottles of good wine.

“How long have you been working with wood?”

“According to my mother, since I was two.”

“Time well spent. Sylvia said you moved to the island. From where?” He felt his skin begin to itch. “Spokane via Seattle.”

“Doyle,” Dee murmured. “I think I read something about you and your work some time ago, in the art section.”

“Maybe.”

Susan tilted her head again, as she had when judging her sister’s earring choices. “Not much on self-promotion, are you?”

“The work should speak for itself.”

“I absolutely agree with that, and in this case, it does. I’m buying it.”

“Ladies,” Sylvia called from the doorway. “Why don’t you come into the stockroom. Dee, I think we have your bowl. Simon, I brought the puppy in. I hope you don’t mind. I know this is taking a little longer than you planned, and he was so happy to see me.”

“A puppy.”

“Careful,” Dee said as her sister bolted for the stockroom. “She’ll want to buy him, too. She’s wild about dogs.”

It took another thirty minutes, with Sylvia cagily blocking his escape and Jaws being stroked and cuddled into delirium. He loaded boxes and bags into their car and decided the entire event had been more exhausting than pulling a stump.

Sylvia dragged him back into the stockroom and into a circling dance while Jaws barked and leaped. “Simon! Those two women didn’t just make our day, they made our week! And they’ll be back, oh yes, they’ll be back. Every time Susan looks at her wine cabinet, or the vase, or Dee uses the bowl, they’ll think of the shop, and of you. And they’ll be back.”

“Go, team.”

“Simon, we sold pieces as we unpacked them. And the cabinet? I honestly thought we’d have it on display until well into the tourist season. You have to make me another!” She plopped down on the little sofa where she’d served her two customers lemon water.

“Then I’d better get to work.”

“Be excited. You just made an excellent amount of money. Ch-ching. And we sold pieces that those two ladies will enjoy. Really enjoy. My day needed a lift, and this really did it.”

She bent down to pet Jaws. “I’m worried about Fee. There was an article on Perry and the recent murders in U.S. Report this morning. I went by to see her, but she was already gone. Her unit works today.”

“I heard.”

“I talked to Laine, her mother. We both decided not to call her while she’s out practicing.”

“You talk to her mother?”

“Laine and I have a good relationship. We both love Fee. I know she’ll have heard about the article by now, and I know it’ll upset her. You could do me a big favor.”

He felt his skin start to itch again. “What kind of favor?”

“I made her minestrone.” She gestured to the Crock-Pot. “And a round of rosemary bread. She should be getting home soon, if she’s not home already. Would you take it by?”

“Why? You should take it by.”

“I would. I planned to, but it occurs to me it’d be good to have someone else around, someone closer to her own age. And this one.” She stroked Jaws again. “It’s hard to be blue around this guy.”

She tipped up her face, and even knowing she was using her eyes deliberately, he couldn’t fight it.

“Would you mind, Simon? I get so emotional when I think of what she went through. I might make it worse. I’d really feel better if I knew she had a good meal, maybe a little company.”

How was it, Simon wondered, that some women could talk you into doing the opposite of what you wanted to do?

His mother had the same talent. He’d watched her, listened, attempted to evade, maneuver, outfox—and she could, without fail, nudge him in the opposing direction.

Sylvia was cut from the same cloth, and now he had a Crock-Pot and a loaf of bread, an assignment—and that contemplative walk on the beach was over before it had begun.

Was he supposed to let Fiona cry on his shoulder now? He hated being the shoulder. He never knew what to say or do.

Pat, pat, there, there. What the fuck?

Plus, if she had any sense—and he thought she did—she’d want solitude, not company.

“If people let other people alone,” he told Jaws, “people would be better off. It’s always people that screw things up for people anyway.”

He’d just give her the food and take off. Better all around. Here you go, bon appétit. Then, at least, he’d have his studying, measuring time, his design time over pizza and a beer.

Maybe she wasn’t back yet. Better. He could just leave the pot and loaf on the porch and be done with it.

The minute he turned into her drive, Jaws perked up. The pup danced on the seat, planted his paws on the dash. The fact that he could without doing a header to the floor caused Simon to realize the dog had grown considerably in the last couple weeks.

He probably needed a new collar.

Reaching over, he slid his finger between the collar and the fur. “Shit. Why don’t you tell me these things?”

As he drove over the bridge, the pup’s tail slashed—door, seat, door, seat, in a jubilant rhythm.

“Glad somebody’s happy,” Simon muttered.

The truck sat in the drive; the dogs raced in the yard.

“We’re not staying,” he warned Jaws. “In and out.”

He let the dog out first and considered that what with stump hauling with Gary and Butch, a visit to town, the adoration of women and now the unscheduled playdate with pals, this had turned into the canine version of a day at Disney World for Jaws.

He retrieved the pot and the foil-wrapped bread.

Fiona stood in the doorway now, leaning casually on the jamb. And to Simon’s puzzled surprise, she was smiling.

“Hi, neighbor.”

“I had to go in to Sylvia’s. She asked me to drop this off.”

She straightened to take the lid off the pot and sniff. “Mmm, minestrone. I’m very fond. Bring it on back.”

She moved aside to let him pass and left the door open as she often did.

The fire crackled, the whiff of soup spiced the air, and she smelled like the woods.

“I heard you got your stump.”

“Is it out on the newswire?”

“Grapevine’s faster. I ran into Gary and Sue on my way home. They were heading to their son’s for dinner. Just set it on the counter, thanks. I was going to have a beer, but Syl’s minestrone requires a good red. Unless you’d rather beer.”

The plan to get in and out shifted, weighed by curiosity. The grapevine was fast, he thought. She had to know about the article. “The red’s good.”

She crossed to a long, narrow cupboard—she really could use a wine cabinet—to select a bottle. “So, a sink?”

“What?”

“The stump.” She opened a drawer, pulled out a corkscrew without any rooting around. “Gary said you’re going to make a sink. A stump sink. It’s going to be the talk of the island.”

“Because not that much goes on here. I’ll get your tree planted in a couple days.”

“Works for me.”

He studied her face while she pulled the cork, saw no signs of distress, shed tears, anger. Maybe the grapevine had broken down after all.

She poured the wine, plugged in the cord on the pot. “Let’s give it a few minutes,” she said, and tapped her glass to his. “So, a solarium.”

“A what?”

“You said I should think about a solarium, south side. Open the kitchen. How would it work?”

“Ah... that wall.” He gestured with his glass. “Load-bearing so you’d need support. Maybe a couple of beams, columns—keep it open but give it a sense of entry. Wall out, beams up. Take it out ten, twelve feet. Maybe pitch the roof. Skylights. A good, generous window would give you a view into the woods. Maybe wide-planked floors. You’d have room for a table if you wanted an alternate to eating in the kitchen.”

“You make it sound simple.”

“It’d be some work.”

“Maybe I’ll start saving my pennies.” She took a sip of wine, then set the glass down to get a jar of olives out of the refrigerator. “You know about the article.”

“Apparently you do.”

She transferred olives from bottle to a shallow dish. “James read it before we met up this morning—and passed the word to the rest of the unit. They were all so worried about bringing it up, not bringing it up, nobody could concentrate. So they finally told me and we got started on our work.”

“Did you read it?”

“No. This is my version of an appetizer, by the way.” She shoved the olives toward him. “No, I didn’t read it, and I won’t. No point. There’s nothing I can do to change what happened before, and nothing I can do to change what’s happening now. I knew it was coming, now it has. Tomorrow it’ll be yesterday.”

“That’s one way to look at it.”

“Syl sent my favorite soup. She thought I’d be upset.”

“I guess.”

Fiona picked up her wine again, pointed at him with her free hand. “You know very well, as she’d have told you—and maneuvered you into coming by so I wouldn’t be alone.”

The dogs rushed in then, a happy pack of fur. “You’re not alone anyway.”

“True enough.” She gave everyone a rub. “You figured I’d be upset—and probably couldn’t outmaneuver Syl.”

“Does anybody?”

“Not really. I am upset—but in a controllable way. I’ve already had two brooding days this month, so I’m not allowed another one.”

He found himself unwillingly fascinated. “There’s a limit?”

“For me there is. And now I have soup and...” She peeled back the foil. “Mmmm, rosemary bread. This is exceptional. I have a stepmother who’d take the time to make it for me, a neighbor who’d bring it by even though he’d rather not, and my dogs. I’m not allowed to brood. So we’ll have dinner and conversation. But I’m not going to sleep with you after.”

“Cocktease.”

She nearly choked on the wine. “You did not just say that.”

“Say what?”

She threw back her head and laughed. “See? This is better than brooding. Let’s eat.”

She ladled out bowls of soup, put the bread on a board and poured some sort of dipping sauce into a dish.

“The candles,” she said as she lit them, “aren’t for seduction. They just make the food taste better.”

“I thought they were to make me look prettier.”

“But you’re so beautiful already.” She smiled, spooned up soup. “To Syl.”

“Okay.” He sampled. “Wait.” Sampled again. “This is really good. Like dinner-in-Tuscany good.”

“She’d love to hear that. Mostly, I think Sylvia’s developed too close an attachment to tofu and strange grains of rice. But when she does minestrone, she’s a genius. Try the bread.”

He broke off a hunk, dipped. “She called your mother.”

“Oh.” Distress came into those clear blue eyes. “I should’ve thought of that. I’ll call them both later and let them know I’m all right.”

“You’re right about the bread, too. My mother bakes bread. Baking’s kind of a hobby for her.”

“I can bake. You know you buy that cookie dough in rolls, slice it, stick it in the oven?”

“My specialty’s frozen pizza.”

“Another fine skill.”

He went back to his soup. “Everyone I know who’s divorced hates all parties involved. Or at least coldly disdains.”

“My father was a very good man. My mother’s a lovely woman. At some point they just stopped being happy together. I know there were fights, and anger, probably some blame tossed around, but for the most part they handled it as well as it can be handled. It still hurt unbelievably, for a while. But then, it didn’t, because he was a very good man, and she’s a lovely woman, and they were happy again. And, oddly, came to like each other again. Then Dad met Syl, and they were... well, they were just beautiful together. She and my mother took the time, made the effort to get to know each other, because of me. And they just hit it off. They really like each other. My mother sends Syl flowers every year on the anniversary of my father’s death. Sunflowers, because they were my father’s favorite. Okay.” She pressed her hands to her eyes briefly. “Enough of that. It gets me weepy.

“Tell me what you did today besides hauling a stump out of the woods.”

Before he could speak, the dogs wandered back in. Jaws scented the air and bulleted for the table. He plopped his paws on Fiona’s leg and whined.

“Off.” She snapped her fingers, pointed to the ground. He sat, but the tail swished and the eyes shone with anticipation. She shifted her gaze to Simon.

“You feed him from the table.”

“Maybe. He keeps at me until—”

He broke off when she huffed out a breath. She rose, walked to the pantry. She got out small chew bones. One for Jaws, and one each for the three dogs who looked at the pup with pity.

“These are yours.” She laid the bones across the room. “Go ahead. Distract,” she said to Simon. “Replace, discipline. As long as you give in and feed him from the table—and people food isn’t good for his diet—he’ll keep begging. And you’re teaching him to be a nuisance by rewarding bad behavior.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Keep it up, you’ll raise a counter-grazer. I’ve had more than one student who’s chowed down on the Thanksgiving turkey, the dinner party rack of lamb or the Christmas ham because they weren’t taught proper manners. One stole a neighbor’s steaks right off the grill.”

“Was that a fetch/retrieve? Because that could be a good skill.”

She shook her spoon at him. “Mark my words. Anyway, other than the stump?”

“Nothing much. I had some work, and I took some pieces into Syl’s, which is why I’m eating soup.” It wasn’t a chore after all, he realized, this dinner conversation with candlelight and dogs gnawing on rawhide. “She’s buzzed because a couple of women were in there when I came in, and they walked out loaded down. She’s shipping the wine cabinet because it was too big for their car.”

“The wine cabinet.” Her spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. “You sold my wine cabinet.”

“That’s one way to look at it.”

She sulked a moment, then shrugged. “Well, hell. Congratulations.”

“It suited her.” He shrugged back when Fiona’s eyes narrowed. “Susan from Bainbridge Island. Canary diamond, good leather jacket, stylish boots. Subtle but expensive Susan from Bainbridge Island.”

“What am I? Obvious and cheap?”

“If you were cheap we’d be having sex now, soup later.”

“That’s supposed to be funny. It is, but only a little.”

“What do you do when you’re out with your unit like today? Don’t you just know all the stuff anyway?”

“It’s essential to practice, individually and as a team. We work a different problem, over different terrain, at least once a month. Then we can go over any mistakes, any flaws or any room to improve. We worked a cadaver find today.”

Simon frowned at his soup. “Nice.”

“Happy to change the subject if you’re sensitive.”

“Where’d you get the cadaver? Corpses Are Us?”

“They were out. We use cadaver material—bone, hair, body fluid—in a container. Mai, as base operations, plants it earlier. Then we set up, just as we would for a real search, assign sectors and so on.”

He tried to think if he’d ever had a more unusual conversation over minestrone. Absolutely not.

“How does the dog know it’s supposed to find a dead person instead of a live one?”

“That’s a good question. Different command. For mine, I use ‘find’ for a live search and ‘search’ for cadaver work.”

“That’s it?”

“There’s more, but most of it deals with the cross-training, the early work, the advanced work.”

“Jaws might be good at it. He found a dead fish today. No problem.”

“Actually, he could be. He can be taught to differentiate between the scent of a dead fish, or animal, and human remains.”

“And not to roll in it when he finds it?”

“Definitely.”

“Might be worth it just for that.” He glanced over to see Jaws bellying toward the table. Fiona simply turned, pointed. Jaws slunk back to the other dogs.

“He responds well, see? Not only to you but to another handler. That’s another essential skill.”

“I think he responds better to you, and I’m not sure that’s all that helpful.”

She nudged her bowl aside. “Maybe not, but this has been. I wouldn’t have brooded because it’s against the rules, but I’d have come close on my own.”

He studied her while the candlelight flickered. “You don’t look like hell tonight.”

“Oh my goodness.” She fluttered a hand at her heart. “Am I blushing?”

“I figured you would,” he added, unperturbed. “A full day out on maneuvers, or whatever they are.”

“Unit training.”

“Sure, and the fallout from the article. But you look good.”

“Wow, from not looking like hell to looking good in one leap. What could be next?”

“Your smile. I also figure you have to know it’s your best feature—the most appealing, the sexiest thing about you. That’s why you use it so often.”

“Really?”

“See, like right now.”

Still smiling, she rested her chin on her fist. “I’m still not sleeping with you tonight. This wasn’t a date. I may want you to take me on a date before we sleep together. I haven’t decided.”

“You haven’t decided.”

“That’s right. It’s one of the privileges of the female to decide these things. I don’t make the rules. So I’m not going to sleep with you yet.”

“Maybe I don’t want to sleep with you.”

“Because I’m not your type,” she said with a nod. “But I’ve already seduced you with my smile, and softened you up with Sylvia’s soup. I could lay you like linoleum.”

“That’s insulting. And provocative.”

“But I won’t because I like you.”

“You don’t really like me that much.”

She laughed. “I actually do, and I’m not altogether settled tonight, so it wouldn’t be what it should be. But I’ll take this.”

She rose to walk around the table. And slid into his lap. She grazed her teeth over his bottom lip, then soothed it with her tongue before sinking them both into the kiss.

Comfort and fire, she thought, promise and threat. The hard body and thick, soft hair, the rough stubble and smooth lips.

She sighed into it, retreated, then locked her eyes on his.

“A little more,” she murmured, and took his mouth again.

This time his hands slid up her sides, skimmed her breasts. Possessed. Small and firm, with her heart thudding under his palms.

“Fiona.”

She broke the kiss to lay her cheek to his. “You could convince me; we both know it. Please don’t. It’s so unfair, but please don’t.”

Some women, he thought, had the power to turn a man in the opposite direction from what he wanted. It seemed his fate to run up against them. And, damn it, to care.

“I need to go.”

“Yeah.” She drew back again, this time cupping his face in her hands. “You do. But thanks, because when I’m restless tonight it won’t be over some damned article in the paper.”

“Just call me Samaritan.”

For a moment, she rested her brow to his. “I’ll give you a container of soup. And a bigger collar for Jaws. He’s outgrown that one.”

He didn’t argue as she gave him time to settle.

And still, all the way home while the pup snored in the seat beside him, he could taste her, smell her.

He glanced at the dog. “This is your fault,” he muttered. “I wouldn’t be in this situation except for you.”

As he turned into his own drive, he reminded himself to go buy a damn tree and plant it.

A deal was a deal.

Ten

She got through it, got past it. Work and routine pushed her hour to hour. She channeled excess nerves into workouts, shedding tension with sweat until an article rehashing her ordeal, her loss no longer mattered.

Her classes, her blog, the daily care and interactions with her dogs filled her days. And since a casual dinner over soup and bread, she had the idea of a relationship—however far it went—with Simon to entertain her mind.

She enjoyed him, quite a bit. Maybe, she considered, because he wasn’t as protective and easy as her circle of friends or the two women who made up her family. He was a little hard, a lot blunt and, she thought, a great deal more complicated than most people she knew.

In many ways, since Greg’s murder, the island had become her sanctuary, her safe place where no one looked at her with pity, or particular interest, and where she’d been able to restart her life.

Not on bare ground, she thought. She was who she was, at the core. But like an island, she’d broken off from the mainland and allowed herself to change direction, to grow, even to re-form.

Not so many years before, she’d imagined herself raising a family— three-kid plan—in a pretty suburb. She’d have learned to cook good, interesting meals and would love her part-time job (to be determined). There would have been dogs in the house and a swing set in the yard, dance lessons and soccer games.

She’d have been a steady and supportive cop’s wife, a devoted mother and a contented woman.

She’d have been good at it, Fiona thought as she sat on the porch taking in the quiet morning. Maybe she’d been young to have been planning marriage and family, but it had all unfolded so seamlessly.

Until.

Until there was nothing left of that pretty picture but shattered glass and a broken frame.

But.

But now she was good at this. Content and fulfilled. And she understood she’d come to this place, to this life, to these skills because all those lovely, sweet plans had shattered.

The core might be the same, but everything around it had changed. And she was, because of or despite that, a happy, successful woman.

Bogart came over to bump his head under her arm. Automatically, she shifted, draped her arm over him to rub his side.

“I don’t think everything happens for a reason. That’s just the way we cope with the worst that happens to us. But I can be glad I’m here.”

And not feel disloyal, she thought, to Greg, to all those pretty plans and the girl who made them.

“New day, Bogart. I wonder what it’ll bring.”

As if in answer, he came to alert. And she saw Simon’s truck rolling down her drive.

“Could be interesting,” she murmured as the other dogs raced over to join her and sit, tails drumming.

She smiled at Jaws’s happy face peering out from the windshield on the passenger’s side, and Simon’s unreadable one behind the wheel.

She rose and, when the truck stopped, gave her dogs the release signal. “A little early for class,” she called when Simon stepped out, and Jaws leaped into the reunion with his buddies.

“I’ve got your damn tree.”

“And so cheerful, too.” She wandered over as he waded through the dogs.

“Give me the coffee.” He didn’t wait for the offer but took her mug, downed the rest of the contents.

“Well, help yourself.”

“I ran out.”

Because he looked surly, unshaven and sexy, she fluttered her lashes at him. “And still, here you are bright and early with a tree, just for me.”

“I’m here bright and fucking early because that dog chewed open five pounds of dog food somewhere before dawn, then opted to puke it up, bag and all, on my bed. While I was in it.”

“Awww.”

Simon scowled as the concern and attention went straight to the dog. “I’m the injured party.”

Ignoring him, Fiona rubbed the puppy, checked his eyes, his nose, his belly. “Poor baby. You’re okay now. That’s all right.”

“I had to throw out the sheets.”

From her crouch, Fiona rolled her eyes. “No, you clean off the puke, then you wash the sheets.”

“Not those sheets. He heaved like a drunk frat boy.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“I didn’t eat the damn kibble.”

“No, but you didn’t have it stowed where he couldn’t get to it, or better yet in a lidded container. Plus, he’s probably not ready to have free rein in the house. You should put up a baby gate.”

His scowl only deepened. “I’m not putting up a baby gate.”

“Then don’t complain when he gets into something he shouldn’t while you’re sleeping or otherwise occupied.”

“If I’m getting a lecture, I want more coffee.”

“In the kitchen.” Once he’d stomped out of earshot, she let the wheezing laugh escape. “He’s mad at you, isn’t he? Yes, he’s very mad. He’ll get over it. Anyway”—she gave Jaws a kiss on his cool, wet nose—“it was his own fault.”

Rising, she walked to the back of the truck to get a look at her tree.

She stood there, grinning still, when Simon strode out with his own mug of coffee.

“You got me a dogwood.”

“It seemed appropriate when I bought it yesterday. But that was before this morning when I was reminded dogs are a pain in the ass.”

“First, it’s a beautiful tree. Thank you. Second, any and everything that depends on us can be pains in the ass. He booted on your bed because when he felt sick and scared he wanted you. And third”—she laid her hands on his shoulders, touched her mouth to his—“good morning.”

“Not yet.”

She smiled, kissed him again.

“Marginally better.”

“Well, let’s plant a tree and see what that does for you. Let’s put it over there. No...” She changed direction. “There.”

“I thought you wanted it back in the woods, where the stump was.”

“Yes, but it’s so pretty, and back there hardly anyone will see it but me. Oh, there, back there, just on this side of the bridge. Maybe I should get another one for the other side. You know, so they’d flank the bridge.”

“You’re on your own there.” But he shrugged, opened the truck door.

“I’ll go with you, give you a hand.” So saying, she hopped nimbly in the back of the truck and sat on the bag of peat moss.

He shook his head but maneuvered the truck around, eased to the bridge and parked again. When he got out to lower the tailgate, she slung the bag of peat moss over her shoulder.

“I’ll get that.”

“Got it,” she said, and jumped down.

He watched as she carted it over to the spot she wanted, set it down. When she came back, he took her arm. “Flex,” he ordered.

Amused, she obeyed, saw his eyes register surprise when he tested her biceps. “What do you do, bench-press your dogs?”

“Among other things. Plus, I just have excellent protoplasm.”

“I’ll say.” He climbed up to pull the tree to the tailgate. “Get the tools, Muscle Girl. There should be an extra pair of work gloves in the glove box.”

The dogs sniffed around but soon lost interest. He said nothing when she hauled over the bag of soil he’d bought to mix with the peat, still nothing when she walked back to the house trailing the dogs.

But he stopped digging to watch her walk back carrying two pails like some lean-muscled milkmaid.

“My hose won’t reach this far,” she told him—and he was gratified she was at least a little winded. “If it needs more water, I can get it from the stream.”

She set the buckets down. The dogs immediately began to lap at the water.

“I don’t know why I never thought to plant something pretty here before. I’ll see it whenever I come home, go out, from the porch, when I’m training. Them,” she corrected, “if I put one on the other side of the drive. Want me to dig awhile?”

It was probably stupid to take that as a challenge to his manhood, but he couldn’t help it. “I’ve got it.”

“Well, let me know.” She walked off to play with the dogs.

He’d never considered tough especially sexy, but despite the willowy frame, the soft coloring, the apparently bottomless patience, the woman had an underlayment of steel. Most of the women he’d been involved with hadn’t lifted anything more challenging than an apple martini—and maybe a five-pound free weight at a fancy health club. But this one? She shouldered a sack of dirt like a seasoned laborer.

And damn if it wasn’t sexy. And it made him wonder just what that body would look like, feel like, when he got her naked. Maybe he needed to push a little harder on that goal, he thought, and put his back into the digging.

She came back when he cut open the bags of soil and peat to mix into the hole.

“Hold off on that a second, and I’ll do it. But I want to show you something first.” She stepped beside Simon, then signaled Jaws—hand command only. He trotted right over and, when she pointed, sat. “Good dog, good.” She slipped him one of the treats she never seemed to be without. “Stay. Go on and get down to his level,” she told Simon.

“Do you want this tree planted or not?”

“It’ll only take a second. Stay,” she repeated firmly when Jaws bunched for a leap as Simon hunkered down. “Stay. He’s getting it, and we’ll work on the sit and stay with distance. But I thought you’d like this. Hold out your hand, say, ‘Shake.’”

Simon slid a cynical glance up at her. “No way.”

“Just give it a try.”

“Right.” He held out a hand. “Shake.”

Jaws lifted a paw, plopped it into Simon’s palm. “Son of a bitch.” He laughed, and the dog forgot himself in pride and pleasure to rear up and lap at Simon’s face. “That’s pretty good. That’s pretty damn good, you dumbass.”

Fiona smiled down as man and dog congratulated each other.

“Do it again,” Simon demanded. “Sit. Okay, shake. Nice.” He stroked the pup’s ears, looked up at Fiona. “How’d you teach him that so fast?”

God, they looked adorable together, she realized. The tawny-eyed man with his morning stubble, the young dog who was growing into his feet.

“He wants to learn, to please. He has a strong drive.” She passed treats into Simon’s free hand. “Reward him. He’ll be happy with your approval and affection, but the food reward’s extra incentive.”

She picked up the shovel, began to toss dirt, then peat, then dirt into the hole.

“That’s enough. We need to set the root-ball.”

“I don’t know much about planting trees.” She swiped the back of the work glove over her brow. “In fact, this is my first. Do you?”

“I’ve plugged in a few.”

“I thought you lived in the city before Orcas.”

“I didn’t grow up in the city. My family’s in construction.”

“Okay, but doesn’t that mean planting buildings?”

His lips quirked. “You could say. But my dad’s policy was to buy a tree or a shrub for any new house he built. So I plugged in a few.”

“That’s nice. Your dad’s policy, that’s nice.”

“Yeah. Nice gesture, and good business.”

He hefted the dogwood, lowered the root-ball into the hole. “That’s about right.” Crouching, he opened the burlap around the root-ball to expose it.

Together they dumped in topsoil and peat, mixed it.

“Shouldn’t we cover it more?” she asked when Simon stopped.

“No, just to the height of the root-ball.” He lifted a bucket. “You want to deep-water, and do that about once a week unless we get a good rain.”

It had been fun, she thought, planting a tree with him in the cool morning air. “Once a week, check.”

“I didn’t get mulch. Figured it was going in the woods and I could just use pine needles. You’ll want to mulch it.”

“Okay.” She stepped back. “I’ve got a dogwood tree. Thank you, Simon.”

“We had a deal.”

“And you could’ve picked up a pine and stuck it in the hole from the stump. This is lovely.”

She turned to kiss him, a friendly gesture, but he moved in and made it more.

“We’ve got some time before school starts,” he told her.

“Hmm, that’s true.” She tipped up her wrist to check the time. “Not a lot. We’d have to be pretty quick and pretty motivated.”

“You’re the former track star. You be quick. I’ll be motivated.”

He smelled of the soap from his shower twined with a touch of healthy sweat from the effort of digging. He looked rough, and ready. And the long, hard kiss beside the sweet young tree had stirred her to aching.

Why wait? she asked herself. Why pretend?

“It might be a good way to celebrate a tree planting. Why don’t we—”

She broke off as she heard tires on gravel. “Apparently someone else is early,” she began, then saw the patrol car. “Oh God.” Reaching down, she groped for Simon’s hand.

Davey pulled up behind the truck, got out. “Nice-looking tree,” he said, and took off his sunglasses and hooked them in his shirt pocket. He gave Simon a nod as he walked toward them. “Simon.”

“Deputy.”

Davey reached out to run a hand down Fiona’s arm. “Fee, I’m sorry to have to tell you, but they found another one.”

The breath she’d held came out with a jump. “When?”

“Yesterday. In Klamath National Forest, near the Oregon border,” he said before she asked. “She’d been missing a couple days. A college student, Redding, California. So he moved west and a little south for the abduction, then drove over a hundred miles to... bury her. The details are the same as the others.”

“Two days,” she murmured.

“They’ve got a couple of feds going in to push on Perry, to see if they can pull anything out of him, if there’s anything to pull.”

“He’s not waiting as long between,” she said. “He’s not as patient.” She shuddered once. “And he’s heading north.”

“He’s targeting the same victim type,” he reminded her, then set his teeth. “But goddamn it, Fee, after that newspaper thing, I’ve got some concerns.”

“He knows where to find me if he wants me.” Panic wanted to beat its wings in her throat. And panic, she reminded herself, solved nothing. Nothing.

And still those wings fluttered.

“If he wants to finish Perry’s work, a kind of homage, he can find me. I’m not stupid, Davey. It’s something I considered when I knew there was going to be an article.”

“You could move in with Sylvia or Mai for a while. Hell, Fee, you can stay with Rachel and me.”

“I know, but the fact is I’m as safe here as anywhere. Safer, maybe, with the dogs.” Her sanctuary. She had to believe it or the panic would win. “Nobody can get near the house without me knowing.”

Davey glanced toward Simon. “I’d feel better if you had more than the dogs.”

“I’ve got a gun, and you know I can use it. I can’t uproot my life on the possibility he may decide to come here in a week, a month, six months.” She dragged a hand through her hair, ordering herself to stay sensible. “He’s not as patient as Perry,” she repeated, “and he’s following someone else’s pattern. They’ll catch him. I have to believe they’ll catch him. Until they do, I’m not helpless.”

“One of us is going to check in with you every day. We take care of our own, even when they aren’t helpless.”

“That works for me.”

Simon held his silence until he and Fiona were alone. “Why don’t you go visit your mother for a while?”

“Because I have to work. And I do have to work,” she added. “I have a mortgage, a car payment, bills. I’ve had to juggle like a circus clown to manage the time and money for a long weekend off.” She picked up the shovel to put it in the back of the truck. “And what happens if he doesn’t go after some other poor girl for weeks? Do I just put everything on hold because of a maybe? I won’t be stupid and I won’t be careless.” Because it made her feel strong and capable, she hauled up the sagging bag of peat. “But I will not let this ruin my life. Not again. And I won’t be taken. Not again. Not ever again.”

“You leave your door unlocked. Half the time you leave it open.”

“Yes, that’s true. And if someone they didn’t know tried to get within twenty feet of the house, or me, the dogs would stop them. But you can believe I’ll be locking up at night now, and my nine millimeter’s going in the drawer next to my bed.”

It took him a minute. “You have a nine millimeter?”

“That’s right.” She tossed the bag of topsoil after the bag of peat. “Greg taught me how to shoot, how to respect a weapon. And after... after I started going to the range regularly until I was proficient. I’m probably a little rusty, but I’ll fix that. I’ll fix it.” The words came out too fast, too fast, and she fought to slow them. “I’ll take care of myself. I need my life. I need my home and my work, my routine.”

She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “I need it.”

“Okay. Okay.” He glanced toward the dogs. They looked like happy, friendly, lick-your-face-off types. But he remembered the low growl from Newman when he’d tussled a little with Fiona in the kitchen. “Why don’t you cancel your classes for the day?”

“No, no. Some of them are already on the ferry, or heading in. Besides, routine. It keeps me centered.”

“Is that what does it?”

“Apparently. The tree’s still pretty,” she said, calmer again. “It’s still a nice morning, and I still have work to do. It helps.”

“Then I’d better move my truck.” He opened the door. “Teach him something else.” He lifted his chin at Jaws. “Like how to get me a beer out of the fridge.”

“Not altogether impossible. But we’d better nail down the basics first.”

Routine did help, and part of that routine was people, and their dogs. She listened, as always, to clients relating progress, or the lack of it. She listened to problems, and arranged her lesson for the day around them.

She used the first few minutes for walk, heel, sit to get both handlers and pups settled in.

“Some of us are having problems with jumping, so we’re going to take that discipline first today. Puppies jump on us because it’s fun and because they want our attention, and they’re so cute we give in to them, even encourage it, rewarding bad manners—and behavior that won’t be so cute in bigger dogs as they grow. Annie, why don’t you tell us what happened the other day.”

Annie from San Juan Island gave her collie mix an apologetic glance. “My niece came to visit with her little boy. He’s three. Casey was so happy to see them, she ran over and jumped on Rory. She knocked him down and he hit his head. He wasn’t really hurt, but he could’ve been, and it scared him. She didn’t mean it.”

“Of course not. Casey’s a friendly, happy dog. Energetic. I imagine most of us have had something like this happen. Or at least scratched legs, dirtied pants, shredded hose.”

“Bruno’s always tearing up my panty hose.” Jake, all 220 pounds of him, got a laugh at the remark.

“We’ll fix that for you, Jake. Like everything else, it takes consistency, firmness and understanding. Do not reward your dog when it jumps. No attention, no smiles, no petting. I find the best command is generally ‘Off.’ Using the ‘Down’ command can confuse them, as we want to use this to get them to lie down. I’m going to use Casey to demonstrate. Go ahead and take her off the leash, Annie.”

She called the dog, who raced over and, as Fiona expected, rose up on her hind legs to jump. Fiona stepped forward, countering the balance. “Off !” Casey’s feet hit the ground. “Good dog. Good girl.” Fiona offered a treat and a rub.

“Obviously it’s going to take more than once, but the dog will learn. The instinct is to step back when a dog jumps, to take their weight. But by stepping forward, the dog can’t get its balance. You use the step and the command—both firm—and when your dog has all four feet on the ground again—not before—you offer praise and reward.”

She demonstrated again. “You and everyone in your family have to get on board with this. The discipline can’t come from just you. Don’t let your kids encourage jumping because it’s fun for them, too. Call her back, Annie, and repeat what I just did if she jumps. Step forward, say ‘Off !’ Then reward.”

Fiona nodded in satisfaction as the routine played out. “Okay, let’s spread out so everyone can work on this. We move on to how to teach your dog not to jump on others next.”

She walked around, offered advice, encouragement. People needed praise and reward, too, she knew, so she doled them out.

She ended the class with a second round of sit and stay.

“Good job, everybody. I’ve got a tip for you this week since spring’s coming: some of you might be planning a garden or have one already started. I just blogged about this, so you can refer to that if and when you need a reminder. You’ll be unhappy if your dog digs up your petunias or tomatoes. Dogs dig for several reasons. Sometimes it’s just because they like it. Sometimes because they’re bored. Regular play, exercise and attention can discourage digging, but not always. You’re not always going to be right on hand when that digging urge strikes. So, fill the holes.”

She got a moan out of several students.

“Yeah, it’s an irritating cycle initially. But a lot of young dogs will get discouraged when the hole they’ve dug keeps getting filled. What’s the point? Also offer alternatives to digging. Playtime, a walk, a chew toy. Distract. But because some will just, well, dig in, I advise you to put a few additives in the dirt you replace. Chili pepper’s a good deterrent, and so is dog poop. Seriously. Sometimes a dog digs to find a cool spot. If you have enough room you might designate some shady spot in the yard for him to dig and clear and hang out in when it’s hot.

“Last, those of you who have no plans to breed your dog and haven’t already made arrangements for spaying or neutering, it’s time.”

She didn’t lecture on the subject. Yet.

As her students began heading out, she strolled over to Simon. “I saw your face.”

“That’s because it’s right here, on the front of my head.”

“The look on your face when I mentioned neutering.” She gave him a poke. “He’ll still be a guy. Balls don’t make the man.”

“Easy for you to say, sister.”

“And what are you going to say the first time he catches a whiff of some sexy bitch in heat and runs off to bang her?”

“Score?”

She poked him again. “And following those instincts, he could get hit by a car on the road, get lost. Now, do you really want to add to the stray and/or unwanted dog population? The number of dogs put to sleep every year just so yours keeps his balls and scores?”

“He’s more into dead fish than sex.”

“For now. Responsibly neutering him will help his behavior. Odds are he’ll be somewhat calmer.”

“Most eunuchs are.”

“You force me to give you literature.” She picked up the ball Peck dropped at her feet, winged it. Then watched the car cruise down her drive. “They timed it.”

“Who?”

“I expect Davey let some people know about what happened. That’s Meg and Chuck Greene, from my unit. First class is over, and I don’t have another today until this afternoon. So here they are to see if I need company.”

She seemed touched rather than annoyed, and Simon took it as his cue to go. “I’ve got to take off.”

“Oh, don’t be rude. Wait two minutes so I can introduce you. You didn’t bring Quirk and Xena,” Fiona called out.

“We’re having a people day,” Meg called back.

They got out of opposite sides of the car, met in front of the hood and joined hands before they crossed over. Stopping, Simon noted, to greet the dogs.

“Who’s this handsome boy!”

Simon watched as Meg, a breezy-looking woman he pegged as late forties, stepped into Jaws’s excited leap.

It worked, he had to admit. They’d have to practice.

“That’s Jaws. Meg and Chuck Greene, this is Simon Doyle, Jaws’s human.”

“Simon!” Meg stuck out a hand, then grasped Simon’s in both of hers. “I bought a set of your stacked tables from Sylvia. I love them. I’ve been hoping to run into you.”

“Meg and Chuck live over in Deer Harbor. Chuck’s a retired cop, and Meg’s one of our lawyers. Simon was here when Davey came by,” Fiona added. “And I’m fine.”

“We needed to check the cabin,” Meg told her. “We’ve got somebody coming in over the weekend.”

“Uh-huh.” She didn’t buy that for a minute. “Meg and Chuck have a pretty cabin in Moran State Park they rent out.”

“Since we were so close, we just came by to see if we could talk you into meeting us for lunch. We thought we’d grab an early one at the Rosario.”

“Meg.”

“And we’re entitled to look after you.”

“Thanks, but I’m going to stick close to home today. You can pass that on to the next shift.”

“Where’s your cell phone?” Chuck asked her.

“Inside.”

“I want you to start carrying it with you.” The tap he gave her nose spoke of affection, and authority. “I don’t think you’ve got a thing to worry about, but use that common sense you’ve got so much of. Carry your phone.”

“All right.”

“Are you spending any nights here?” Chuck asked Simon.

“Chuck!”

“I’m not talking to you,” he said to Fiona.

“Not yet.”

“Wouldn’t hurt. You do custom work, don’t you?”

“Are you talking about sex or wood?”

There was a beat of silence before Chuck roared out his big laugh, then slapped Simon on the back. “Maybe we’ll talk sex over a beer sometime. On the wood, Meg’s been after a new china cabinet. Can’t find anything that suits her. This one’s too big, that one’s too small, the other one’s not the right wood. If she could tell you what the hell it is she wants and you make it, I’d stop hearing about it.”

“We can talk about that. You’d want to show me the space.”

“If you’ve got time this afternoon, after three.” Chuck reached in his wallet and pulled out a business card. “Home address is on there.”

“Okay. More like four.”

“That’ll work. Well, come on, Meg, let’s get this party started. You?” He pointed at Fiona, then kissed her cheek. “Put your phone in your pocket.”

“Yes, sir, Sergeant Greene.”

“You take care, Fee. We’ll see you this afternoon, Simon.”

They walked back to their car as they’d walked from it. Hand in hand.

“They’ve been married over thirty years, and they still hold hands,” Fiona murmured. “He was a cop for twenty-five, down in San Francisco.” She waved as they drove out. “They moved here about ten years ago, and he runs a tackle shop. He loves to fish. She does real estate and some family law.”

“Did they get married when she was twelve?”

“Oh, boy, she’d love that. She’s in her late fifties, he had his sixty-third birthday in January. And yeah, they both look easily ten years younger. I think it’s love and happiness. Or just lucky genes.”

She picked up the ball one of the dogs had dropped hopefully at her feet, threw it again. “I’m telling you because I always want to know about people, so I tend to give backgrounds, but also because it might help you with the design.” She tilted her head. “Since you’re so strict about it. Anyway, Chuck figures everybody can find every place on the island. I can give you directions.”

“I’ll find it.”

“All right. I’ve got to go clean my house, do some laundry and other exciting domestic chores before my afternoon session.”

“I’ll see you later, then.”

He called the dog, headed for his truck.

He didn’t kiss her good-bye, Fiona thought, and sighed a little, thinking of the Greenes holding hands.

He boosted the dog in, hesitated, then shut the truck door and strode back to her. He gripped her shoulders, drew her up and into a kiss that was hard and brief and satisfyingly hot.

“Put your phone in your pocket.”

When he went back to the truck, drove off without another word, she smiled after him.