by K. A. Tucker
It wasn’t Terry I was watching, not that I’m going to admit that.
Tyler shrugs. “And you said you don’t trust the others, so—”
“I never said that!” I hiss, glancing around to make sure we’re not within earshot of anyone. Despite the cold, my cheeks burn. The last thing I need is that rumor flowing through the volunteer crew. Finishing my examination, I climb to my feet, intent on calling the other volunteers over to look after Larry’s dogs while they sort out what to do about Larry, so I can get the hell away from Tyler. I assume the state troopers have already been called in to provide a medical check and evacuation, if required.
“I’m serious,” he calls out, his tone shifting to a more somber sound. “That guy seemed more interested in me than he was in my team. I don’t know how thorough he was with my dogs, and I wouldn’t want them to suffer because of it.”
Despite my annoyance, the genuine concern in his voice stalls my legs. “That’s just Terry being Terry. He’ll talk your ear off, but he’s one of the good ones.”
“Maybe. But that gorge was more challenging than I expected.” His gaze wanders behind him, back toward the trail, pitch-black now. “Tank injured his leg last spring. He looked good running today, but I’d still like a second look at him from someone I trust. If you wouldn’t mind.”
I can’t keep my jaw from gaping. Someone he trusts? Is this a joke? “Why? So you can accuse me of sabotaging you if I find something wrong with him?”
A pained expression flickers across his face. “We got off on the wrong foot. Harry pissed me off, and I took it out on you. But I think you’ll agree I’m not one of the bad guys, and I know you were only looking out for Nymeria.”
That sounds like an apology, or as close to it as I’m likely going to get. Oddly enough, it’s in the same vein as the handwritten note I didn’t deliver back in January.
I clear my throat. “How is she, by the way?”
“She’s doing well.” A slow, amused smile touches his lips. “I’m assuming you already know that, though, seeing as your friend was by Frank’s twice, asking. What? You didn’t think Frank would tell me?” If he’s at all irritated by that—or by my feigned obliviousness—he’s hiding it well. He shifts his attention to the curly-tailed silver-and-ash dog at the head of the pack who watches us quietly, as if understanding every word. “I’d appreciate your help with Tank now. I need him with me to the end.”
Tyler has already figured out how to play on my weakness.
With a glance over at the cabin to make sure Terry isn’t around—what would he think if he knew I was rechecking a dog, especially after what happened last year?—I abandon my escape plan and march for the left lead dog, crouching in front of him. “Remember me?” I whisper, scratching behind his ear.
He licks his lips in answer, his breath skating across my face.
“Yeah, of course you do. Don’t pee on me again,” I warn, listening to his breathing and measuring his pants across my cheek before I check his gums and the skin on the back of his neck for any signs of dehydration.
The whole time, I feel Tyler watching me closely, that penetrating stare unsettling.
“How old is he?” I ask.
“Nine, next month.”
“Wow. I wouldn’t have guessed that.” Though there’s intelligence in the dog’s eyes that only comes with age.
“It’s his left leg that was the problem.”
I gently palpate it, looking for any bumps or bulges, anything that might stir a flinch. “There’s nothing here. And no signs of muscle loss.” I finish off with my hands on his other joints, looking for any problems that might come with a nine-year-old dog. “No dehydration, no overheating, no aches.” I cap off the declaration with a pat before climbing to my feet. “He looks perfect. Ready to run another eight hundred miles. With adequate rest,” I add, my tone warning.
Tyler nods. “You got it, Doc.”
In the distance, a head lamp glows faintly and volunteers are already moving into position, preparing to deliver another hero’s welcome. Only fifty-something more times to go.
“I guess I should get moving.” Tyler tugs his gloves back on. “I know you didn’t do that for me, but thank you, anyway.”
“No problem.” Without that layer of animosity—that his apology seems to have chipped away in an instant—I can already feel my unease around this man fading.
“You checkin’ out now, Brady?” Peter marches forward, his clipboard at the ready.
Tyler pulls his hood back up, the fur ruff framing his face. “Ready.” His voice is barely above conversation, but the dogs hear the command all the same. They bark and tug against their harnesses, excited to get going.
I move backward, out of his way.
“Is this your only checkpoint?” he calls out, peering at me from behind his cowl.
“No, I’ll be in Cripple, day after tomorrow.”
“Then you can hand me my gold.”
I can’t help my laughter at his brazen confidence. “I guess we’ll see.” Not that a veterinarian would be the one handing out the prize. The sponsor has a rep for that honor.
“Why? You don’t think I can do it?” His voice holds a challenge.
“You’ve never run the Iditarod before. Others have.” I shrug. “And you won’t be the only one racing for that prize.”
His eyes narrow. “So Hatchett’s going for it too, huh?”
“I have no idea what Harry’s doing.” I keep my voice even. Harry told me that in confidence. And that Tyler’s shooting for the gold means he’s planning on resting either at Cripple or even farther, at Ruby.
Twenty hours with Tyler Brady. Doesn’t stir the unpleasant reaction I expected.
His smile is crooked, but it makes his already handsome face impossible to turn away from. “Right.”
I struggle to stop the responding smile.
“See you there, Crusader.” With one last pensive look, he shifts his attention to the distance, a steely expression taking over his face. There are two hundred and forty miles of remote Alaskan tundra between here and the next time I’ll see him. He releases the snow hook. “Let’s go.” Another soft command, but that’s all it takes.
I watch the number on the back of his bib fade into the darkness.
Maybe Tyler Brady isn’t so bad after all.
CHAPTER SIX
“Marie?”
“Yeah?” I croak, burrowed deep in my sleeping bag, like a caterpillar waiting for my metamorphosis.
“We’ve got our first team coming in.” I hear the apology in Karen’s voice.
Already? “How long have I been asleep?” Surely, my head just hit my mat.
“I reckon you got almost two hours.” She snorts. “More than me!”
I don’t doubt it. Karen, a loud and tiny grandmother from Fairbanks, was busy heating soup and assembling sandwiches for the trailbreakers coming through on their snowmachines when our plane dropped us off early this morning. She’s been running the Cripple checkpoint for longer than I’ve been a veterinarian, and she does it all. If she’s not out at the greeting point to cheer on the mushers, she’s cooking in the checkpoint’s “headquarters”—a hut with plywood walls and metal shelves that are brimming with everything from paper plates to propane canisters and Coffee-Mate—all supplies Karen personally arranges to bring in every year.
Normally a two-hour power nap is all I need, but after the two-day whirlwind at Rohn, my body aches. Or maybe I’m getting too old for this.
“Lord, it’s hot in here. I wouldn’t put so much wood in that thing.”
I tug my cover down to confirm that the glow from the woodstove burns bright, illuminating the yellow walls of the arctic tent. “Tell Terry,” I mutter, unable to hide my annoyance. He stoked the tent stove with so much wood this afternoon that it was almost too warm for even base layers by the time I settled in. He must have snuck in and added another log while I was sleeping.
No wonder sweat is building around my
shirt collar.
“They’re maybe a mile and a half out,” Karen warns.
I do the quick math. A mile and a half at six or seven miles per hour … “I’ll see you outside in five. Ten, tops.”
“Don’t make me drag you out of your bag.” She chuckles, but from what I’ve heard of Karen, the only thing she takes more seriously than her kitchen is a proper greeting for the teams, especially the first one in.
“Wait!” My eyes peel open, the sleepy fog lifting. “Do you know who it is?”
“I hear it’s that handsome rookie from Finland. See ya out there!”
There’s only one person she can mean. Tyler did it. He’s going to get his gold nuggets.
And Harry is going to be so pissed.
My soft chuckle carries through the tent.
* * *
Cheers and applause explode as the silhouette approaches through the stunted black spruce that dapple the otherwise empty, flat tundra. Tyler’s red musher’s jacket and the dogs’ matching red booties and coats provide a picturesque contrast to the sea of snow in the waning daylight. A trail photographer on-site for the grand entrance takes full advantage, snapping as the team slides in.
Tyler eases his sled into a long-term spot and drops his snow hook, then steps off. He pushes back his hood, revealing a few more days’ worth of growth across his jaw. Eyes that look like they haven’t shut for more than an hour at a time for days—they probably haven’t—scan the various functional sheds and arctic tents that make up the isolated checkpoint, now bustling with excitement from volunteers and media personnel who’ve been waiting for this monumental arrival.
When his tired gaze passes over me, it doubles back quickly. He offers me a lazy smile that seems to say, “Told you so.”
I smile back.
And maybe it’s because we’re both exhausted, but our eyes hang there, fastened on each other for a long moment.
“So? You gonna take the TV or the gold?” the prize sponsor rep, a burly man bundled in a parka, drops his beefy hand onto Tyler’s shoulder and then turns to pose for a semi-candid shot. Hopper, the race judge at this checkpoint, hovers beside him.
“I can get a TV anywhere,” comes Tyler’s wry response.
“That, you can.” The rep’s laughter booms in the vast, empty wilderness. “How about we head over there for the little ceremony?” He gestures toward a table nearby where the trophy and gold await.
Tyler rubs a palm across the stubble on his cheek. “Can I take care of my dogs first?”
The rep holds his hands up in surrender. “Fair enough. You do what you gotta do. I’ll be inside, where it’s warm.” He lumbers toward the hut.
Tyler’s shoulders seem to sink as he heads for the straw—the first step in a lengthy process of caring for the team before he can even think about a moment’s rest for himself.
“Well, kid?” Terry sidles up to me, his attention on the dogs ahead. “How are you feeling? Good nap?”
I grunt.
“You shouldn’t be so tired. You’re half my age.”
“More like two-thirds. And you got way more sleep than I did last night.” The fifty-nine-year-old veterinarian vanished at nine p.m. I found him snoring in his sleeping bag, with no request for a wake-up call. He had no intention of getting up until his alarm went off this morning.
“True,” he admits with a chuckle that slips away as quickly. “It’s just you and me till Sam can catch a flight in the morning.”
“Yeah, I figured.” Sam, the third veterinarian assigned to this checkpoint, left here yesterday morning to cover for an ill veterinarian in McGrath. Coordinating all the flights—of dogs heading back to Anchorage, of volunteers and media moving between checkpoints—is a monumental task that requires a lot of flexibility, especially when juggling the unexpected.
So right now, it’s just me and what I’m beginning to think is my assigned babysitter, care of Wade.
“The tracking report says Skip’s about two hours out if he keeps his pace, and Harry’s not too far behind him. We might have as many as four more teams rolling in overnight. So why don’t I steal a bit of sleep now while you take this one?” He nods toward Tyler’s dogs. “Then I’ll look over Skip and Harry while you get a few more hours’ rest. Sound like a plan?” He’s already making his way toward the yellow dome.
“Don’t put too much wood in!” I holler after him.
“It’s the stove!” he counters.
“No, it’s definitely the operator.”
Tyler is already spreading a thick layer of straw for his dogs and doesn’t seem to notice me approaching.
An unexpected spike of nerves stirs in my stomach as I watch him. “I guess your goals weren’t too lofty.”
“Hey, Crusader.” He looks up briefly and meets my eyes, allowing me to see the heavy bags under his. “I told you I would make it here first.”
I ignore the nickname, crouching to greet Tank with a head scratch. His panting is hot against my cheek. “What are you going to do with your big prize?”
“I promised it to Reed.”
I can’t keep the surprise from my voice. “You’re giving Reed $3000 in gold nuggets?”
“Yeah. He deserves it.” A curious frown touches his brow. “Why?”
“No reason.” Reed probably does deserve it. He must spend a lot of time with the dogs. “So is he your nephew or cousin?” Tyler referred to him as family.
“Brother.”
They must be fifteen to twenty years apart. “Wow, that’s a big age difference between you two.”
“Yup.” He drops the last pile of straw beside me for Tank. The other dogs have already settled in their spots, waiting for their meals. “He’s a good kid.”
“He seems like it.” A bit nervous around us but at ease with his canine companions. And I sense that’s all the information I’m going to get about Reed.
“So, how’d we look coming in?”
I’ve never been this close to Tyler. Now, I admire his features. The bridge of his nose is perfectly straight and ends in a pointed tip that flatters. The painful-looking crack on his chapped lips doesn’t detract from their fullness.
He’s staring at me.
Waiting for my answer.
“Good. You look good,” I mumble. “I mean, the dogs look good.”
“Good.” Yet still he hovers there.
It’s another long second before I realize he’s holding out the dog diary, waiting for me to accept it. That’s why he’s looking at me like that.
“Oh! Right.” I snatch it from his hand, my cheeks burning as I bury my head in the pages of veterinarian notes. “You still have your full team.”
“And it’ll stay that way, if they can handle it.”
“Really? You’re not going to drop any near the end?” Even the top mushers will leave a few dogs in that last stretch. Fewer dogs means less time taken out of the race to care for them when every minute counts.
“Not if I can help it. They’ve all worked hard, and they all deserve to finish the race.” He scratches the jet-black dog’s head on his way past.
We work quietly as we get the team settled. I focus on my routine examination, pulling my stethoscope out to check each dog’s heart and lungs, gums, paws, and joints, earning myself plenty of licks in the line.
Tyler is busy rubbing down each dog’s muscles and smoothing ointment on their paws to keep the pads from getting chapped. “So, I’ve always been curious, who was it that cut through my gate? You? Or your animal control friend?” He fastens the insulated jacket on the blond husky again.
His tone is casual, but his question makes me wary. “Why? You want to send a bill?”
“Relax.” He chuckles. “I’m just wondering how far past the line Marie the Crusader is willing to go for the sake of an animal?”
I shift to the black swing dog, pressing my stethoscope to his chest. “As far as I’m concerned, there is no line.”
Tyler’s silent for a moment and I feel him wa
tching me, but I keep my focus on my patient.
“I think I like that answer.”
“Enough to take down your stupid sign?” I quip without much thought.
His lips part, but he falters on his words. “How do you know about that?”
“I may have driven out to your place to apologize the next day.”
“Really? What happened? You forgot your bolt cutters?”
An unexpected laugh slips out, and it earns me his crinkly-eyed smile.
“Better yet, you decided I didn’t deserve an apology.”
“Something like that.” I lift the dog’s lip to check his gums, and he snarls.
“Airi, settle down,” Tyler warns, adding, “He likes to make noise. Especially when he’s hungry.”
“I don’t blame you, Airi. I get grumpy when I’m hungry, too.” I stroke his neck.
“You should stop distracting me, then, so I can hurry up and feed them.” His gaze skates over my face, stalling on my mouth. I see raw curiosity, interest.
Is Tyler flirting, or is he this way with everyone? I don’t know him at all.
But a part of me admits that I want to.
I take my time with my medical checks to make sure they’re thorough while Tyler shifts to food preparation, examining the kettle he set up to melt snow for water and then hauling his weighty drop bag of food to his sled.
The dogs whine and bark as they watch him pour kibble into fourteen identical red bowls and mix it with chunks of meat and warm broth that he prepared in a cooler. Only when each dog has a bowl in front of it does Tyler step back and take a breath. The fur ruff that protected him from the harshest elements is frozen, caked with snow and ice.
“Tired?”
“Exhausted,” he admits. “I can’t wait to sleep.”
Which he’ll get to do soon, based on how all the dogs are inhaling their meals. With full stomachs and beds to rest, they can easily log eight hours without stirring. “Your team looks healthy.”
He nods, his shoulders sinking with relief as if he was anxiously waiting for me to declare that. “Good.”
The checkpoint is buzzing again as volunteers spill out from the communal hut.