Alaskan Hero. Teri Wilson

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      “Good boy.” Brock ran the pad of his thumb over the dog’s head in lazy circles.

      Of course the dog understood. And if he didn’t, he would. He was a dog, after all. He’d bond with whoever spent time with him and fed him every day. By this time next year, Brock would be a distant memory to both Aspen and Sherlock. It was straightforward with animals. At least that’s what Brock always told himself, making it all the more easy for him to walk away.

      With people, however, things were rarely so simple. Which was precisely why Brock didn’t let himself get close—to anyone. It was also why he didn’t like the sound of the Reindeer Run.

      He wasn’t here to put down roots, so he saw no point in getting involved in community events. And a team event? It sounded even more problematic. The guys on the ski patrol didn’t need to start thinking of him as part of their team. But Cole had already signed him up, so he didn’t really have a choice in the matter.

      Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. What could be the harm in running five kilometers—or whatever the Reindeer Run involved—with the guys? It couldn’t be any more dangerous than spending every evening with Anya.

      Anya.

      Something moved in Brock’s chest at the thought of her. Something warm, intangible and most definitely not invited.

      Convinced he was imagining things, he scolded himself. The thing with Anya was nothing. He was helping her out, that’s all. And, likewise, she was helping him with the pups. Wax on, wax off, just like she’d said. He wasn’t doing anything wrong.

      His throat suddenly grew tight, and his gaze was drawn to Cole’s Bible sitting in the center of the table.

      In Brock’s experience, it wasn’t unusual to find a Bible in a ski patrol headquarters. When the business at hand involved saving people’s lives, faith in a higher power never hurt. And Brock had always been a believer himself. It had just been a while since he’d picked up the good book. A long while.

      He reached for the Bible. The sheer weight of it felt comforting in his hands. The edges of the supple, leather cover were tattered and worn from what looked like years of use. Brock’s own Bible looked a fair bit newer and was packed up in one of the boxes back at the house. At least he thought it was. The boxes followed him from one place to the next, but sometimes he didn’t even bother to unpack them. What was the point?

      He flipped the book open and was relieved when his fingers automatically found the page and verse he was searching for—Luke 19:10.

      For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost.

      It was the verse he’d based his life on.

      Brock certainly didn’t have a savior complex. He knew all too well he was a man, full of more than his share of flaws. He’d never felt comfortable with the label hero no matter how many times it was applied to him.

      But he’d always considered what he did to be a calling—finding those who’d been swallowed up by the snow, and teaching others to do the same. His parents, particularly his mother, worried over him and his obsession, as they called it. Was it an obsession? Maybe. Brock had devoted his life to it, to the exclusion of everything else.

      And everyone else.

      It demanded everything from him, and he was freely willing to give it. The thought of sharing his life with someone, of loving someone, only filled him with dread. Without warning, people vanished. Even loved ones. He knew that only too well.

      But that was okay because without his calling, the disappearance of his brother would have been for nothing. And that would have been unacceptable. At least he’d made something meaningful out of all that pain.

      For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost.

      He was doing God’s work. No one would be hurt by it. Not him, not Anya and certainly not the dogs.

      At least that’s what he told himself as he closed the Bible and pushed it away, out of arm’s reach.

      Chapter Five

      “Hi Mom, it’s me.” Anya followed the whirring sound of her mother’s sewing machine through the darkened living room of her childhood home, down the hall and to the sewing room.

      The sewing room, formerly Anya’s bedroom, was where her mother could most often be found, bent over the Singer, stitching together brightly colored suedes, velvets and sometimes even furs. Today, like most other days, an array of traditional Inuit anoraks and parkas hung across the length of the curtain rod. Some were complete, ready to be shipped off to the native arts cooperative gallery in Anchorage, where her mother’s work was sold. Others still needed finishing touches here and there. But they were all beautiful, even in their various stages of completion. Beautiful and one of a kind.

      “Hello, sweetheart.” Her mother glanced up from the machine but kept feeding fabric toward the needle. “Give me just a minute. I’m almost finished with this sleeve.”

      “Sure.” Anya sat on the foot of the bed—the same twin mattress she’d slept on from first through twelfth grade—and watched.

      As always, her gaze was drawn toward her mother’s hair, twisted into a thick braid that ran down the middle of her back. When she was a girl, Anya had wanted nothing more than to look like her mother. Or any of the other women in her family, really. They all had warm mocha skin, dark, mysterious eyes and long hair as black and shiny as raven’s wings. Anya’s mother may have only been part Inuit, but she looked every inch a native Alaskan, as did her aunts and cousins.

      Anya’s appearance couldn’t have been more different. With her gangly limbs, ivory complexion and ribbon of chestnut hair, which glowed almost amber in the sunshine, she resembled a tourist from the Lower 48 more than any of the native Alaskan children in her classes at school. But it was her eyes that really set her apart.

      Who had violet eyes?

      No one Anya had ever seen, other than the strange-looking girl she saw in the mirror every day. As if her name wasn’t awful enough: Anya Petrova. A fleeting glance at her mother was sufficient to tell anyone who wondered about such things that the Russian name was solely her father’s doing.

      Like most girls, all she’d wanted was to fit in, to be like everyone else. But she wasn’t like everyone else, not even her own mother. The differences between them were written all over Anya’s face.

      “What brings you by, Anya?” The sewing machine slowed to a stop. Anya’s mother took her foot off the pedal and swiveled to face the bed.

      Anya shrugged. “I just wanted to stop by and visit for a minute. I can’t stay long, though.”

      She didn’t get into the reason why—Brock’s field trip. Because it was a nonevent as far as she was concerned. Not worth mentioning.

      Then why is just the thought of it making me nervous enough to break into a sweat?

      She shrugged out of her parka. “It’s warm in here.”

      “Is it?” Her mother frowned and glanced at the window, completely obscured by the parkas hanging from the rod. “It’s snowing again, right?”

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