Courting Chloe (Hudson Valley Heroes Book 1) (9 page)

“But she kept him instead,” Ian finished with a shrug. “A free dog for the program.”

Her brows snapped together. “In the first place, there’s no such thing as a free dog. Each canine assistant we graduate requires thousands of dollars in training, food, shelter, and veterinary bills. Secondly, most dogs don’t have what it takes to make it through the program. Prince is here because he’s smart as a whip, loyal, agile, devoted, and ready to work. There are no shortcuts.” She let out a breath and straightened her shoulders. “If you’re looking for a perfect match, I’m afraid I can’t guarantee it. It’s an imperfect world.”

Although passionate, her response struck Ian as thoroughly inadequate. He’d made a hundred thousand dollar investment. Now she was telling him some mutt they’d found behind a dumpster would solve Preston’s issues? He was about to say as much when he felt a subtle pressure at about knee height. He glanced down. As though sensing he was the only member of the group he hadn’t yet won over, Prince shifted his weight against Ian’s leg and gazed up at him. Something that looked remarkably like hope shone in the dog’s soulful brown eyes.

Ian frowned. “What’s the command for Down?”

Chloe showed him the motion—a quick downward bend of her forearm, index finger pointed toward the ground—and Prince settled instantly. “Good boy,” she praised. She fed him a treat, and then returned her attention to Ian. “Remember, it’s a
cue
, not a command.”

“Semantics,” he retorted, brushing off her objection.

“Absolutely not.”

“What’s
sematics
mean?” Preston asked.

“Semantics,” Chloe corrected, “and that means using one word in place of another word that has a similar meaning. Like stream and creek, or angry and mad.”

“Exactly. Like cue and command,” he put in.

“No. Not at all.”

To his way of thinking it was a petty point, but she wasn’t giving in. Just the opposite was true. She was digging in. For some unfathomable reason, it seemed essential to her that he understand the difference. Annoyance rippled through him. “All right,” he sighed. “Enlighten me. What’s the difference?”

“Between cue and command? For a service dog, the difference is enormous. Absolutely vital, in fact.” If she heard the biting edge to his voice, she was gracious enough to ignore it.

A small smile curved her lips and her warm brown eyes were lit with sparks of lively copper. She was no longer agitated, but fully animated, caught up in her thoughts. Her excitement was palpable—as though she was about to share some wonderful secret that only she knew. Maybe that was what he found so attractive about her. Chloe Edmonds’ appeal went well beyond her physical appearance. She radiated feminine fortitude, kindness, and conviction. She caught his attention and held it in a way other women never had.

That said, she wasn’t his typical type. She wasn’t tall, wasn’t blond, wasn’t supermodel striking. But there was something about her… something so compelling he found it hard to take his eyes off her. Maybe it was the way she spoke, or the way she moved. Ian watched as she lifted her hands to brush back her hair. Her breasts shifted beneath her t-shirt. He pictured Chloe naked. Delicate ribs, tight waist, slim hips, graceful thighs. Her nipples the same lush cherry hue as her lips, so deliciously ripe and ready for him to take into his mouth—

Fuck
. What was he
thinking?
Ian forced his attention back to the conversation at hand.

“Dogs aren’t robots,” she said. Unlike him, her thoughts had remained on track. “They’re living, feeling, sentient creatures. Every dog here is being trained to
work
. To serve his person. To that end, we constantly look for and reward Intelligent Disobedience.”

“Intelligent Disobedience?”

“I know I’m getting ahead of myself—you’ve only been here a week—but here’s the concept. Obviously any dog can be taught the basics: Sit, Stay, Fetch, Come. And that’s fine, but it only gets us so far because the fact is, there are simply too many variables in life to adequately prepare for every situation. So a service dog has to go beyond what he’s trained to do and really
think
about what his person needs, even when it goes against a direct order. Cue versus command. That’s the concept of Intelligent Disobedience.”

Ian shook his head. “Sorry. You lost me.”

“I’ll give you an example.” She thought for a moment, not the least bit put off by his failure to immediately grasp the concept. “All right. Let’s say you’re blind, standing at a busy intersection in midtown Manhattan. You’re about to cross the street, so you cue your dog to proceed, when a bike messenger comes hurtling straight toward you. Your canine assistant must refuse the cue to move forward and instead guide you
back
a step or two to avoid a nasty collision with the bike. Does that make sense?”

Ian nodded. “Actually, yeah. It does.”

Chloe pressed on. “Here’s another one. You’ve placed your dog in a Sit-Stay while you unload groceries from your car and bring them into the kitchen. Nothing special there, right? But before you finish, you have a seizure and collapse in the driveway. Your canine assistant must immediately break her Sit-Stay, set off your medic alert alarm, and then retrieve your medication and bottled water and bring it to you. She’s expected to stay by your side until help arrives.”

“A dog will do all that?”

“One of our dogs? Absolutely.” A note of pride entered her eyes. “And those are just a couple of examples. I could give you dozens more if you’d like.”

Ian glanced at Prince. It seemed impossible. By all appearances, he looked like a run-of-the-mill mutt. Four paws, shaggy tail, long nose, floppy ears. But apparently there was a lot more going on between those ears than he’d given the dog credit for. “So you’re smart, huh boy?”

Preston giggled. “Maybe he’s smarter than you, Uncle Ian.”

Ian’s brows shot skyward. Normally he had to spend twenty minutes coaxing his nephew to get anything beyond a tentative smile. Now Preston was laughing? Deliberately ribbing him? He gave a ferocious roar and swept the boy off his feet, perching him on top of his left shoulder. “Oh you think so, do you?” With his free arm, he gestured across the field. “Better take that back or I’ll toss you in the lake.”

Preston emitted a delighted laugh and grabbed at the branches of the poplar. “No!” he giggled. “I won’t take it back!”

Holding Preston securely aloft, Ian gave another mock roar and took two monstrous, lumbering steps forward. “All right, then, buddy. You asked for it. Too bad you don’t have your Aquaman suit on—”

A high-pitched, sharp bark interrupted him. He glanced down and found Prince, who’d been relaxed just seconds ago, was now standing stiffly on all fours, watching him—and obviously anxious about what he saw.

“It’s all right, boy,” Chloe soothed. “Settle. They’re just playing. He’s not going to hurt him.”

Ian froze. His jaw dropped. “Hurt him?” He swung Preston off his shoulder and set him securely on the ground. His head swiveled from Prince to Chloe. “He thinks I’m going to hurt Preston?”

“No, not really.” She gave a helpless shrug. “He’s just not used to rough-housing yet. He’ll get there. In the meantime, he just alerted that something was happening that he didn’t understand.”

“Should I give him a treat for being good?” Preston dug into the kibble bag he wore looped from his belt.

“Absolutely you should. One at a time, not all at once,” she corrected when he opened his palm to reveal a fistful of treats. “Remember, five pennies are worth more than a nickel.”

Preston mulled that over, then frowned up at Chloe. “No, they’re not.”

She smiled. “Not to you and me. But to a dog, five little treats seems like a bigger reward than one big treat.”

“Wait a minute,” Ian put in, still unsettled. “He thinks he has to protect Preston from
me?”

“No,” Chloe assured him immediately. “Not at all. In fact, canine assistants are deliberately trained
not
to be protective. They have to allow strangers—doctors, nurses, EMTs—to get close to their person any time, any place, day or night. And besides, he wasn’t guarding, just alerting. After all, that’s his boy.”

“His boy?”

“Animals can become especially attached when it comes to children.” Chloe gave a wistful smile. “You’ll see. It’s an amazing bond. I think Prince decided from the moment he saw Preston that he belonged to him.”

“He belonged to Preston, or Preston belonged to him?”

“Both, actually.”

“Good dog. Good boy.” Preston nuzzled his cheek against the dog’s flank and looked up at Ian. “Well, Uncle Ian? Can we bring him home now?”

Chloe sent him an encouraging nod. Even Prince cocked an expectant ear and thumped his tail hopefully. The silence stretched.

Something sharp twisted in Ian’s gut. Preston was happy, yes. But so goddamned vulnerable it hurt just to look at him. Ian had wanted a dog for Preston. He’d read case after case demonstrating where a child with symptoms like Preston’s had been significantly helped by a canine assistant. He’d researched the best training facilities in the country. He understood there could be considerable financial expense involved in acquiring a service dog. He’d gathered all the facts before coming here. So he hadn’t come into this blind. Yet he felt completely blindsided.

He just hadn’t expected…
this.

The protective dam he’d built around them to keep his nephew safe was starting to break down, dissolving bit by bit. The dangerous world he’d held so firmly at bay was seeping in, subjecting them once again to life’s raging currents and cruel unpredictability. That had never been part of his plan.

Chloe, obviously—perhaps deliberately—obtuse to his hesitation, pushed forward. “That’s it, then. If you’re ready, I’ll get you set up with bowls, food, dog bed, and everything else Prince needs to settle in.”

“We’re ready!” Preston chirped.

Ian held back a sigh. “I guess we are. Let’s bring him home.”

Home
. There was that damned word again.

Chapter Nine

Chloe glanced around Ian and Preston’s cabin, hoping to find a mess. In her experience, clients who’d made their cabins feel like home for the duration of their stay generally had the best outcomes. Messy was good. It showed they were emotionally invested. But here? Everything was ridiculously neat and tidy. Not a pillow out of place, not a cup in the sink, not a toy on the rug. It looked as though no one lived there at all. She suspected if she peeked in the bedroom closets, she’d find their suitcases neatly packed, ready to grab and go. Commitment level zero.

Well… hell. She pushed her misgivings aside and strode into the kitchen. Keeping her vice deliberately upbeat, she announced, “We’ll put Prince’s food and water bowls right here, near the pantry.” She placed a small rubber mat on the floor to catch spills, then settled the bowls on top of it, out of the cooking area, but within easy reach for refilling.

“What about his bed?” Preston asked, gesturing to the thick foam mat his uncle carried. “That goes in my room, right?”

“It sure does. Prince gets to sleep on the floor beside your bed. That way he can make sure you’re okay all night long.”

“Yesss!” Preston pumped his tiny fist and bounded away with excitement. “C’mere, boy. I’ll show you my room. I think you’ll like it.”

Chloe followed, glancing in the cabin’s other bedroom as she did. As she suspected, the larger bedroom remained untouched and unused, the sheets and blankets folded neatly at the foot of the queen bed. But both twin beds were neatly made. So Ian slept in the same room as his nephew. Not unreasonable, given their circumstance, but neither was the situation sustainable. In unguarded moments, particularly mornings, she’d seen the exhaustion that clung to Ian like a dull fog. She made a mental note to discuss the matter later.

Two framed photographs, the room’s only personal touch, stood on the nightstand next to the lamp. The first showed a strikingly beautiful woman with dark hair and hazel eyes. She was outfitted in a graduation robe and cap, thrusting a diploma at the camera and flashing a killer smile. In the second photo Ian stood with Preston gathered up in one arm, while his other arm was loped around the shoulders of the same petite, dark-haired woman. They stood on a boardwalk somewhere. Chloe noted a glittering ocean in the background, a ferris wheel.

“Your mom?” she said, smiling gently at Preston.

He nodded. “I made the picture frames all by myself,” he boasted. “Purple was mommy’s favorite color.”

“They’re beautiful.”

To her dismay, Chloe found tears misting her eyes and a lump gathering in her throat. She kept her gaze firmly fixed on the frames while she got her emotions under control. It was always the odd, small moments that got to her. The horrific loss of Preston’s mother she could assimilate and clinically process, like a catastrophic flood that swept away strangers in another country.

But the intimacy of this was unbearable. Somehow the image of Ian—so physically large, strong, and overtly masculine, a man who would not look out of place in an NFL lineup—holding his frail nephew by the hand as they shopped at a New York City craft store for the gaudy assortment of purple beads, purple gem stones, and plastic purple hearts that had been so lovingly, messily glued to the wooden frame… well, that nearly broke her. There was just something so tragically correct about it all.

She was also aware that on some hideously selfish level, she was mourning something she never would have had with her former fiancé. If she and Jeff had married, had a child, and Chloe had died, she couldn’t imagine her busy surgeon husband taking the time to help their child memorialize her like that. Far more likely, he would have sent his assistant out to purchase a classically engraved sterling silver frame. Something achingly cold, expensive, and tasteful. How appalling.

God, what an idiot she’d been. But at least it was over and done with. Nothing she had to worry about any more. She straightened abruptly, only to find Ian quietly studying her. She glanced away, certain her emotions were plainly etched on her face.

“All right, then. Let’s find a place to store Prince’s leash and put his toys away,” she babbled, glad to have somewhere else, anywhere else, to direct her attention.

“Can I feed Prince?” Preston asked eagerly. “We’re having spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. Do you think he’ll like that?”

She laughed and shook her head. “I’m sure he would, but you most certainly cannot feed Prince meatballs and spaghetti sauce. He has his own food, and you feed him that.”

“Oh. Okay.” Preston tilted his face up toward hers. “How about you? Do you like spaghetti and meatballs? You can stay and have dinner with us.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse Preston’s spontaneous offer when Ian put in, “It’s Friday night, Preston. Chloe probably has plans.”

Something in his tone caught her attention. He sounded slightly defensive, as though he fully expected her to refuse… but hoped she wouldn’t.

Interesting.

She allowed her gaze to drift upward, past his lean hips, his narrow waist and broad chest, so beautifully suggested by his low-slung jeans and the sturdy cotton of his Henley tee, to study his face. Their eyes met, and the impact nearly took her breath away. She realized with sudden clarity why she routinely held her gaze at bay, choosing to study a vague point over Ian’s shoulder whenever they spoke, or better still, directing her attention to Preston or Prince.

Ian’s brilliant hazel eyes were lit with sparks of gold and green, and seemed to burn with some quiet inner fire—a fire that intensified whenever their eyes locked. A fire that might be (all right, most likely was) reflected in her own gaze. There was definitely heat between them. But even as that thought formed, she dismissed it. Not heat, exactly. Just an attraction that shouldn’t exist. Butterflies that shouldn’t be dancing in her belly, and a jittery excitement that had no place zinging along her nerves. All of it would only interfere with the work they had to do.

“But you’re welcome to join us if you’re free,” Ian said.

Preston tugged the hem of her shirt. “Well? Can you stay?”

Oh, for God’s sake, Chloe, enough already.
She tilted her head, considering the offer.

“Hmm. Well, I guess that depends on one thing.”

Ian raised one dark brow in question.

“Are we talking actual homemade meatballs, or those frozen things that taste like cardboard, only not as good?”

Preston giggled. “One time Uncle Ian called them frozen turd balls.”

“Hey! You weren’t supposed to repeat that.” Ian rested his hands lightly on his nephew’s shoulders and gave a gentle shake. “Anyway, they’re not that bad. The box has a picture of a sweet little Italian grandma on the front.”

She groaned. “Ugh. Those are the worst. Tell you what. Why don’t I run to my cabin and pick up a few things? I think I’ve got all the makings for
real
meatballs. They’re not hard to make.” She looked at Preston. “If you don’t mind getting your hands all squishy and messy, that is.”

“I don’t mind! I like getting squishy and messy!”

“Then you’re going to
love
making meatballs.”

“Can I come with you?” Preston asked eagerly. “I want to see your house.”

Ian bent low to speak to his nephew. “We’ll wait here, buddy. Maybe Chloe needs a little time to herself—”

“It’s fine,” she assured him. “Besides, the walk’ll give Preston and Prince a chance to work on their leash skills.”

Although he gave a casual nod in response, something in his expression shifted and re-aligned, as though he’d been relieved of an unnamed burden. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what had happened, but Chloe was suddenly glad she’d accepted the invitation. A bit of the tension that seemed so ever-present, as much a part of Ian Dowling’s persona as the breadth of his shoulders or the color of his hair, lessened slightly. “All right, then,” he said. “That sounds good.”

*     *     *

“Do you ever miss the city?” Ian asked.

Chloe paused, considering her answer. “I miss some things about it, I suppose.”

There were two ways to reach the camp’s staff housing. One path followed the main entrance road and took less than five minutes, while the other—the path they were currently on—was a fern-lined trail that followed an ambling brook and meandered through the woods, necessitating a solid twenty minutes to reach the same place.

This time of year, when the trees were blazing with color and the path was carpeted with fragile leaves that scattered beneath her boots like forgotten promises, Chloe always took the longer route. It wasn’t just the beauty of the path that drew her, but the way the dry, crisp air seemed to caress her skin. The way the dappled sunlight filtered through the trees in narrow beams, like God’s fingers, pointing out speckled rocks and fallen acorns, tiny wonders she might otherwise have strode past without seeing.

“What sort of things?” he prompted. “The restaurants, the shopping, the people?”

She shook her head. They were walking as they talked, Preston and Prince racing a few yards ahead of them. “We have all that here, you know. Just on a smaller, less intense scale.” She picked up a fallen branch and absently rapped it against the trunk of an oak sapling they passed. “I guess I miss my old neighborhood most. We had a loft in Tribeca.”

He gave a low whistle. “Nice address.”

“Nice loft, too. Tall ceilings, open beams, lots of glass, wood, and steel. Everything stark and monochromatic, even the furniture. All mid-century pieces.”

She was aware of his gaze on her, his quiet and considering pause. Then, “That isn’t the sort of place I’d picture you in.”

A small smile curved her lips. “It’s funny, I spent so much time trying to convince myself it was exactly what I’d wanted—that I was so flat-out
lucky
to be there—but I guess it wasn’t ever really me.” She arched one brow and shot him a rueful glance. “Hence my presence here, while Jeff is still there.”

His gaze slid past the ring finger of her left hand, which was distinctly bare. “Jeff? Your ex-husband?”

“No. My former fiancé. We never married.”

“Why?”

“Why didn’t we get married?” She gave a strangled laugh and shook her head. “Wow. You get right to it, don’t you?”

“No, I meant—”

“Look, Uncle Ian! Fish! Lots of them!”

They stopped near a wooden bridge that traversed the rocky, meandering brook the trail abutted. The bridge was only a few inches above the creek, which itself usually ran only a foot or so deep, particularly this time of year. Chloe liked to bring clients with mobility issues here. It gave them a safe opportunity to practice leading their dog over a variety of surfaces.

Preston dropped Prince’s leash and knelt down on the bridge, his body perpendicular to the water, leaning so far over the brook that his nose nearly got wet. A city kid, Chloe thought with a smile. He’d probably never seen live fish swimming in a stream. Although as the fish here were no larger than her pinky, she supposed the proper term for them was probably ‘bait’. She turned to Ian to make a teasing comment about it, but something about the way he was looking at her arrested the light-hearted words in her throat.

“I meant,” he said, “Why did you have to work so hard to convince yourself that it was exactly what you wanted? That you were so lucky to be there?”

“Oh. That. Because…”As always when the subject of her former fiancé came up, she felt at a distinct disadvantage, but nowhere more so than when it came to their loft. “It’s just… Jeff had incredible taste. Occasionally I’d make suggestions about paint colors, or furniture, or lighting, but I was always wrong.” She shook her head and gave a deliberately careless laugh. “All those silly arguments, and ultimately Jeff was right. The place was absolutely gorgeous when he was done. You know the magazine
City Scene
? They came and did a huge photo spread of the loft for their ‘Living in the City’ issue.” She paused, nodded firmly. “So there you go. Obviously I was lucky to live there.”

Silence. Then a hint of a smile flicked across Ian’s lips. “But you hated it.”

“No! I didn’t say that at all. The loft was perfect. Really. Every single inch of it.”

His smile widened. “Every single goddamned perfect inch of it.”

Chloe had to bite her lip to keep from smiling back. She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the trunk of a sturdy birch tree. “I didn’t say that,” she repeatedly stubbornly. “The loft was perfect.”

“If you say so.” He gave a loose shrug. “I guess it all depends on what your goal was.”

“What do you mean?”

“Was the goal to get a photo spread of the loft in some pretentious magazine, or to build a home together?”

Her thoughts staggered to an abrupt stop. How strange that it had never occurred to her to look at it that way. But wasn’t that exactly what had bothered her so much at the time? The loft had never felt like home—or at least not like
her
home.

She remembered how Jeff had deposited copies of the magazine everywhere he went. The hospital, his office, the local deli, their coffee table—they’d had a horrible fight about it and she called him the Johnny Appleseed of
City Scene
magazine. Then there was the maddening way he’d act so casual and contrived whenever someone mentioned they saw the feature on their loft.
Oh, that?
No big deal, really, but Chloe was pretty excited about it.