seem to want to leave my side. In fact, he doesn’t like being off his leash.”
Lacey had walked the paths along Clover Ridge many times, so she chose one that took them over different types of terrain and close to the noise of earthmovers where a new house was being built. Throughout, she kept her eye on the Lab, noting when he seemed to shy away from things. And throughout, she was excessively aware of the tall, muscular man walking next to her.
“When was Sheridan’s last mission?” she asked.
“Missouri, three months ago, searching for survivors after the killer tornadoes there.”
She grimaced. “I saw the awful pictures on television. I’m sure it was so much worse actually being there to witness it.”
“It was,” he bit out. “But Sheridan was great. He found at least a dozen people trapped in the debris during the three days we were there.”
“Was he injured?”
“Minor stuff, typical superficial wounds.”
“How long after the mission did his behavior begin to change?”
“He slept hard for a few days when we returned home, also typical. But he just never seemed to recover. He’d always been an independent dog, but suddenly, he wouldn’t let me out of his sight.” He nodded toward the Lab walking a few steps ahead of them, head down. “And now he seems attached to that toy.”
Lacey didn’t miss the accusatory tone, but let it go. “Do you remember anything different about the last mission—did he fall, for example?”
Mike appeared to think back, then shook his head slowly. “No. Sheridan’s very sure-footed.”
“I noticed his thick footpads when I groomed him,” she said, observing the way Sheridan moved. The dog was tentative and easily spooked. The sudden flutter of a bird had him skittering sideways and cowering next to Mike. When they approached the site of the house under construction, he flinched at the noise of the heavy machinery and balked at moving forward. Mike practically dragged him farther down the path. The tension between the man and the dog was palpable.
“May I?” she asked, reaching for the retractable leash.
Mike hesitated, then handed it over. She released the full length of the leash and stopped, allowing Sheridan to walk ahead slowly. When he noticed the wide space between them, he stopped and loped back toward them.
“Sheridan, stay,” Mike said, then made a frustrated noise when the dog disobeyed.
“Let’s see what he does on his own,” Lacey suggested.
His mouth tightened, but he nodded his acquiescence.
Leaving slack in the leash, she steered them down a branch of the path that took them along Timber Creek. Slowly Sheridan increased the space between them.
“Pretty place,” Mike remarked, looking around at the lush landscape. The late-afternoon sun was beginning its slow descent over the mountain ridge to the west, spilling pink light across the valley.
Pretty? Was it possible she hadn’t imagined what he’d said about her mouth? “I think so, too.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Almost a year.”
“Do you have family nearby?”
“No, they’re all in New York and Connecticut.”
He seemed surprised. “What do they think of you living in such a remote place?”
“They think I’m crazy for moving to the wilderness,” she said with a laugh. “They’ve never understood my connection to animals, why I’d want to make my living working with dogs.”
He smiled. “My family is like that too.”
“But what you do is so important.”
“Thank you. But like you said, not everyone understands why I’d want to work with dogs.”
“How long have you been a handler?”
“Twelve years now.”
“So Sheridan isn’t your first dog?”
“No, ma’am…but he’s the best.”
At the pride and affection in his voice, her heart swelled. She felt a sudden kinship with Mike, and a surge of appreciation for his service to the country.
Not to mention his brawny contribution to the scenery.
A warm flush that had nothing to do with the late-day heat made its way up her body. A warning flag raised in her mind, reminding her Mike Nichols was simply passing through. He had engaged her to help his dog, not to spin fantasies about his big, sexy physique.
They had reached the bank of Timber Creek, a bubbling, cool stream known for its fishing. Lacey watched Sheridan to see if he would follow his retriever instincts and jump into the water.
He crouched at the muddy edge and stuck his black nose near the water, watching tiny fish dart back and forth. The sight would have been comical—Sheridan still clutching the pink bone in his mouth—except for his obvious anxiety. He whined, but he didn’t go in.
“Enough of this,” Mike