Page 1 of High Intensity

One

Jillian

“You guys be good, okay?”

I get whines and whimpers from Hunter and Murphy, who are crowding around my legs as I try to get out. Emo is being her aloof self, curled up on the carpet in front of the fireplace, pretending not to care whether I come or go, but I know the moment I walk out the door, she’ll be up on the chair by the window to watch me leave.

I already put Peanut and Nugget in the back of the SUV. They have their noses pressed against the glass, tongues lolling, excited to be the ones to come with me this time. More often than not it’s one of the others, needed for their specialized noses. Today, however, it’s Peanut’s sweet disposition, and Nugget’s cuddly nature that are important. Where we’re going no one will care Peanut is partially blind or Nugget has deformed hind legs.

This will be our first visit to Wellspring Senior Living, an assisted-living facility in Kalispell. I got this gig through my friend, Sloane, who is also the one who suggested I move up here from Missoula in the first place.

It was less than five months ago; I was called out to Libby with Emo to search for human remains in the mountains. I still have occasional nightmares about the boneyard my dog sniffed out; a dumping ground for what turned out to be a pair of serial killers.

That’s when I met Sloane, who was a detective for the Lincoln Sheriff’s Department, and my local contact. She and I connected right away and stayed in touch after I returned home, forging the kind of friendship I’ve been lacking in recent years. All my old friends have slowly disappeared over time, and I haven’t exactly done much to hang on to them. They’d all been part of a life I no longer fit into.

Connecting with the dogs had been the first tentative step on a new path. The friendship with Sloane had been the next one. If not for her, I wouldn’t have been able to gather up the courage to pull up stakes in Missoula and seek out a fresh start here.

When I was up here to celebrate Thanksgiving with Sloane, her fiancé, Dan, and their families, the subject of relocation came up. It was over a cup of tea on her front porch early the morning after. She asked why I’d seemed preoccupied during dinner, and I mentioned toying with the idea of a fresh start, even though I didn’t give her the background. She didn’t ask why—which is one of the reasons I like her so much—and simply suggested moving closer to her. She pointed out there would likely be plenty of work for me and the dogs here in the mountains, since I already had connections with law enforcement in the region and left a good impression.

The idea had been churning through my head the entire drive back home that afternoon, and by the time I got to Missoula, I’d mostly had my mind made up. The next day I called the realtor, who helped me buy my property on the outskirts of Missoula five years prior, and set the wheels in motion.

Two months later, and here I am; just settled into the dogs’ and my new digs, off Terrace View Road, halfway between the town of Libby and Sloane and Dan’s place. The single-story, rustic ranch house came with a couple of acres of property backing onto the banks of Big Cherry Creek. The place even had an outdoor run and kennels since the previous owner had hunting dogs.

As I drive away, I glance back at the house and catch sight of Emo’s shadow in the large front window. Then I notice the gutter hanging down from the corner and the missing downspout, and realize the term “rustic” may be giving the place more credit than it deserves.

The bones of the house are good, and the previous owner had made a good start on renovations but ran out of money and enthusiasm, which is why I was able to pick it up for a relative steal and on very short notice. And the property itself is amazing, with beautiful views from the back deck, which had been put in new in the past two years.

Most of the windows have been replaced, but the roof definitely needs work, as does some of the stonework on the big river-rock chimney. The siding is actual wooden boards that were stained a gray-blue color. I don’t hate it, but it’s looking a little weathered.

Inside isn’t too bad; the only thing left to do are the extra bedrooms and main bathroom. The kitchen cabinets and concrete counter look fairly new, and so do the floors; nice, light, extra-wide hardwood boards. The focus in the living space is the large stone fireplace, which—along with the view—is what sold me on the house.

The day before yesterday, when the movers arrived, I had them place the big pieces of furniture, but leave the boxes in one of the extra bedrooms for me to tackle bit by bit.

Which is what I’ll get back to later today when I get home.

There is snow on the ground, but the roads are clear and it’s a beautiful day for a drive. Despite the cold outside air, I have the window behind me open a crack so Peanut can stick her large nose outside. She easily gets carsick otherwise. Mostly Great Dane, she is large enough to stick her head over the back seat and I can hear her sniffing at the fresh air.

Nugget is probably already asleep in the large dog bed I have in the back of the SUV. These two are my therapy dogs. They love affection and they love people, which is a bit of a miracle, given where they came from. As unmatched a pair as they are, these two are best friends.

I pull my knit beanie farther down over my ears against the cold chill. Then I turn up the radio and sing along full-blast to Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like the Wolf” as I make my way to Kalispell.I can’t hold a tune to save my life, but luckily my dogs don’t care.

“You must be Ms. Lederman,” the sweater-vest-wearing administrator waiting for me at reception greets me. “David Gentry, we spoke on the phone.”

I shake his offered hand. “Please, it’s Jillian. Nice to meet you.”

“Of course. Jillian, would you follow me? We already have quite a gathering in the community hall. Sadly, our facility isn’t equipped to handle live-in animals, so a lot of our residents had to give up a pet. They miss them.”

“I can only imagine,” I reply. “I don’t know what I would do without my guys.”

Ten minutes later, Nugget charms his way from lap to lap, doing the rounds as he’s bound to do. Peanut is a tad more discerning with her affections and has picked out her favorite person in the room; a frail-looking, elderly woman in a wheelchair. Peanut is sitting down beside the chair, her headresting on the lap of the woman, who absentmindedly scratches Peanut behind the ears.

Both woman and dog have their eyes closed, a look of satisfaction on their faces.

I catch David’s eye, who seems pretty pleased as well. It’s amazing how simple and effortless it really is to bring a little joy to people’s lives.

It brings me joy as well, and provides me with some balance for the rewarding, but often heart-breaking search and recovery work I do.

Wolff

---