Alaskan Hero. Teri Wilson

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.