Return to Virgin River (Virgin River #19) - Robyn Carr Page 0,24

the healthy, reasonable fear. The irrational fear.”

“How do you suppose I do that?”

“With the right dog, for starters. A dog you can absolutely trust.”

“Hmm,” she said, thinking she really didn’t like the idea of being around any dog. “How did you get into this?” she asked, taking a sip of wine.

“Kind of the reverse of your situation. I found a dog who had been abandoned and abused. I was just a kid of fifteen and I carried the dog home. I called her Izzy. I wanted to keep her and get her strong and my dad thought it was a bad idea. He thought the dog’s temperament might be permanently damaged, that she might get scared and attack or run off or just hide in a corner and shake for the rest of her life. But I talked him into it and then I looked everywhere for someone who could show me how to help her gain trust again. There was a trainer over in Fortuna and I went to talk to him. Then I took Izzy with me. He thought she might be about two years old and based on her physical condition, might have been used for fighting from the time she was a pup. Even the trainer said I’d probably be fighting a losing battle. I had to hand-feed her for months. I slept with her and took her everywhere but school. In six months she was the best dog that ever lived. And she was happy. I think she forgot about the abuse.” He looked at her and flashed his grin. It was an engaging, infectious grin that demanded a smile in return. “And I got hooked on training. To have a dog, especially a difficult dog, follow your commands because she wants to—it’s exhilarating. It gives you a friend for life.”

“And now it’s your job?”

“Just part-time. Because I enjoy it. Dogs deserve to be well trained. I think it makes them happy. I know it makes them social. And it makes a good family. Frustrated dog parents are unhappy and unhappy parents are sometimes angry. That’s no good for anyone.”

“Why don’t you teach people how to train their dogs?”

“I do that, too. But not everyone has the right temperament. It takes a certain kind of confidence. For me, it’s satisfying to turn over a well-behaved pet or partner...”

“Partner?”

“I train hunters and support animals, too. They’re working dogs.”

“And guard dogs? And police dogs?” she asked.

“No. Canine officers should train their own dogs; it’s part of the bonding experience. I don’t like the idea of guard dogs. Get an alarm. Or just an ordinary dog will bark at just about anything that stirs. Most people want guard dogs that will scare people, even attack. That’s not what I do. I want to work with people who want happy dogs. That’s a tall enough order.”

“And you have many other things to do,” she said. “I’m very curious about all your art. But I’m more curious about your experience with this town. How long have you been here?”

“I grew up here. It was just me and my dad. This was his property. I was little when he and my mother got divorced. She went back to the city and we stayed here. He was a lineman with the county—back then it was power lines.”

“So, you spent almost your whole life right here?”

“Not all, no. I went to college in San Francisco, lived there a few more years, before I decided I didn’t have to pay those high city prices. What about you? Where did you grow up?”

“Southern California. Newport.”

“One of those California beach girls...”

Before long, he began the second beer while she sipped her wine. They talked about areas of the state they liked, the differences between the northern mountains and the southern beaches. She told him she’d been married, though briefly, and had been divorced for nine years. He mentioned that he had been married eleven years ago, that his hadn’t worked out, either. It was one of those pleasant, superficial, just-getting-to-know-you chats. She heard her phone ringing in the house and decided whoever was calling could leave a message because she was enjoying this time with her landlord.

They parted ways as the sun was getting low over the pines and a small chill was settling over the land. “We’ll have to do this again,” he said.

“By all means,” she said.

When she was back inside, she checked her phone. It was Howard, her father. His voice was a