Part 4
Owen bent over the puppy and followed Maya’s voice. He kept the small body wrapped in warm cloth, worked carefully to stimulate breathing, and refused to look at the clock. Seconds had become too large to count.
“Again,” Maya said. “Steady pressure. Don’t stop because you’re scared of hurting her.”
The puppy’s mouth opened. At first there was only a faint movement in the throat, so slight Owen thought he had imagined it. Then the chest drew inward and released a wet, fragile cough.
“There,” he said.
“I heard it. Keep going.”
A second breath came, then a third. The puppy shuddered in his palms and gave a thin cry that barely crossed the room. It was enough.
The mother raised her head. Owen set the newborn against her chest, and she pulled the pup into the curve of her body with a tired sweep of her muzzle. The other three crowded close, climbing over one another in search of warmth.
“Four alive,” Owen told Maya.
This time neither of them tried to hide the relief in the silence that followed.
The rest of the night narrowed to checks and small adjustments. Owen replaced damp towels, made sure each puppy nursed, and watched the mother for signs of trouble. She slept in brief drops, waking whenever one of the pups moved too far from her belly.
Near dawn, Owen sat against the wall with his forearms on his knees. The dog opened her eyes and looked at him across the blanket. She no longer watched his hands.
A plow reached the lower ridge shortly after nine. Maya arrived behind it in a mud-splashed clinic truck, with Noah following in a sheriff’s SUV. She came through the door carrying two cases and a scanner, her dark hair twisted into a loose knot beneath a wool cap.
Owen had known her only as a voice, but the person matched it: composed, direct, and attentive to whatever was in front of her. She washed her hands, knelt beside the mother, and spent several minutes letting the dog smell her before beginning the exam.
“Good girl,” Maya said softly. “You’ve had a terrible night, haven’t you?”
The shepherd’s eyes flicked toward Owen. He remained beside her shoulder while Maya checked her temperature, hydration, and abdomen. She examined each puppy in turn, lingering over the smallest.
“Premature, but not by much,” she said. “The little one needs close watching, especially through the next forty-eight hours. Right now, though, I don’t hear anything that makes me want to separate her from the mother.”
Noah stood near the kitchen table, reviewing the copied camera images. “Can you scan her?”
Maya passed the reader slowly over the dog’s shoulders. It beeped once. She wrote down the number, called her clinic, and asked an assistant to search the registration database.
The answer came back several minutes later.
“No owner name,” Maya said. “Blackstone Working Dogs is listed as the registrant. The animal field says ‘female breeding unit seventeen.’ No call name.”
Owen looked at the dog. She was cleaning the smallest puppy with patient, careful strokes.
“Unit,” he repeated.
Maya’s expression did not change, but her hand rested briefly against the shepherd’s neck. “The file also says her pregnancy was confirmed six weeks ago. Estimated due date was eleven days from now.”
Noah lifted his gaze. “Blackstone told us they were transporting her to a buyer because she was due any day.”
“Then they lied about that too.” Maya closed the scanner case. “Stress and cold likely pushed her into labor. She should have been under veterinary observation, not in a truck during a winter warning.”
The dog’s ears moved at the sharpness in Maya’s voice. Owen rubbed one finger along the intact fur between them.
“She needs something better than a number,” Maya said.
Outside the window, wind lifted loose powder from the ridge. Beyond it, the east slope dropped toward miles of gray-green sagebrush buried under snow. Owen had driven through that country with his father every winter when he was a boy, watching plants bend flat beneath the weather and rise again when it passed.
“Sage,” he said.
The dog turned her head at the sound. It might have been coincidence, but Owen said it again.
“Sage.”
Her eyes stayed on him.
Noah’s phone rang before anyone could comment. He stepped onto the porch, spoke for several minutes, then returned with his jaw set.
“Blackstone’s story is changing. Now Voss says two employees found Sage after she escaped and left her here temporarily because their truck was sliding. He claims they returned to retrieve her and saw someone inside, so they left to avoid a confrontation.”
Owen pointed to the first camera image. “They tied her down and drove away in the middle of a warning. That isn’t temporary care.”
“No.” Noah put the phone away. “And the coordinates in their incident report place the escape fourteen miles from this cabin. We’ve requested vehicle location data and their transport logs. State animal control already had an inspection scheduled for Monday.”
“For what?” Maya asked.
“Unreported litters and incomplete medical records.”
The pieces did not yet prove why Sage had been left, but they had begun to face the same direction. A pregnant dog appeared on a supposedly empty porch days before an inspection. The kennel reported her missing only after the storm made the roads impassable. Its employees returned not with help, but in silence.
Maya stayed until late afternoon. She left formula, warming supplies, and instructions written in large block letters, though Owen had already memorized them. Noah arranged for a patrol to make periodic passes at the lower road and told Owen a warrant request was moving through the county prosecutor’s office.
“Call at the first engine you hear,” Noah said. “Not after someone knocks.”
By dusk, the cabin was quiet again. Sage slept deeply, four puppies pressed against her. Owen ate standing at the counter, then checked the locks and carried an armful of wood inside before full dark.
The engine came at 10:14 p.m.
It climbed the access road slowly, without the flashing lights or heavy tread of a county vehicle. Sage’s head rose before the beams crossed the front window. Her body tightened around the puppies, and a low growl filled the room.
Owen called Noah, put the phone on speaker, and turned off the lamp. A truck stopped beside the porch.
Two sets of boots crossed the snow. Three hard knocks struck the door.
“Mr. Mercer,” a man called. “Grant Voss, Blackstone Working Dogs. You have property that belongs to me.”
Owen stood between the door and the blankets. “Sheriff’s deputies are on the way.” A pause followed. Then the porch boards creaked, and someone slowly pressed down on the door handle…
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