The Search by Nora Roberts

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
    M an’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