by K. A. Tucker
Blood rushes with the knowledge that this exploding attraction isn’t one-sided, not in the least. Whoever would’ve thought the angry, spiteful man I met in January would end up being someone I might be attracted to?
Definitely not me.
The sky is murky with predawn light when bundled bodies begin emerging from tents with more frequency, some heading to the outhouse, others to the hut, where a hearty plume of smoke billows from the pipe. Tyler’s team will be ready to settle into another long stretch of sleep when they’re done eating.
And I’ve lingered around one musher’s team for too long to not stir a few whispers, if anyone’s paying attention. Thankfully, Harry must still be asleep. I’ll have to deal with him at some point, but I’ll happily avoid him for as long as possible.
I brush off the snowflakes falling from my forehead. “They’ll have a stack of pancakes ready in there, if you’re hungry.” While the mushers all have a supply of vacuum-sealed pizza and burritos in their drop bags to sustain them, checkpoint volunteers like Karen take pride in offering a hot meal.
“Starving.” Tyler kneels in the snow, investigating his runners. Deciding what needs fixing later, after the dogs wake up from their second sleep. If these mushers aren’t fussing over their dogs or catching up on rest, they’re tinkering with their sleds. Some send an entire new one to a checkpoint ahead of time so they can swap out. “I’ll be there in ten. Save me a few?” He caps that off with a wink.
“You’ll be fine. Karen rations.” I catch myself smiling as I head for the hut, my heart and mood light despite my frozen cheeks and rumbling belly, and I know that grin is one hundred percent because of the rookie musher from Whitefish, Montana, by way of Finland.
On my way, I slow to scan Harry’s team without getting too close to disturb them. They’re asleep on their straw beds, banks of snow beside them to cut the wind and jackets to keep them insulated. All sleep soundly, their noses tucked beneath their tails.
I still remember first learning about sled dogs sleeping out in the cold. It was at the Hatchett Kennels and I was seven. Earl Hatchett was three weeks out from the Iditarod and doing overnight training runs to get his team up to top condition, camping in the woods. I couldn’t comprehend how any living thing could withstand minus-twenty-degree temperatures. Iggie, a pointer my father had rescued, spent his evenings sprawled on the kitchen floor by the woodstove, waiting for scraps. He’d be shaking within five minutes of stepping outside.
Earl being Earl, he was happy for any opportunity to educate how sled dogs are different from other dogs, how they not only tolerate the cooler temperatures better thanks to two layers of fur, but they also prefer it.
I had a tough time buying into his sermon, but in the years since I became a veterinarian and volunteered for this race, I’ve seen the truth in his words. With their heavy winter coats, spending too long indoors makes them uncomfortable. When allowed inside, it’s not uncommon for these dogs to pace by their owner’s door, panting, asking to be let out to cool off. Iditarod races during mild winters—still cold by human standards—see mushers forced to rest their teams for long stretches during the day and a record number of dropped dogs due to overheating.
Only when I confirm no signs of discomfort in the dogs—shivering or ice on their coats—do I feel comfortable moving on.
Lynn Corball, a musher from Seward who came in while I was sleeping, nods in greeting as she ladles broth into a dog dish. Rick said she checked in three hours ago. She should have her dogs sorted and be resting herself by now.
As if she can read my mind, she laments, “He didn’t eat much earlier.” She throws a flat look toward her sable-colored lead dog, who waits eagerly, his tail swishing. The other dogs are curled up on their straw beds but watching their musher intently.
I offer her a sympathetic smile. “At least he looks hungry now.” Otherwise, as a veterinarian, I’d be concerned.
“You gave him too many snacks on the way in!” Harry calls out behind me, appearing from the shadows. His boots crunch in the snow, a hot coffee in hand. “Now you’re gonna have a tough time settling them down again if you don’t feed them all.”
At that moment, Harry sounds like Earl. But, unlike Harry, Earl knew when not to share his wisdom.
Lynn shoots a glare his way before shifting back to her task. I’m sure she’s none too pleased to be schooled by a musher half her age.
I’m equally displeased. I didn’t want to deal with him yet. Why is he awake?
Harry, oblivious or not caring that his expertise is unwanted, shifts his attention to me. “Where were you last night when I rolled in? Didn’t they tell you I was coming?”
“I was catching some sleep.”
“Yeah, well, you’re my veterinarian. I expected you there for my dogs.” There’s no mistaking the displeasure in his tone.
“I’m here for all the dogs, as a volunteer, and I can’t do my job if I’m dead on my feet,” I snap, my anger flaring.
“Whoa.” Harry has the nerve to hold up a hand, to look taken aback by my reaction.
I inhale a deep breath to collect my composure. I’m hungry, and my patience is paper-thin. “What are you doing up? Couldn’t you sleep?”
“I slept okay, except Brady decided to get up and make a bunch of noise just as I was settling in.” His eyes wander past me to where Tyler’s sled and team are resting, and they narrow. “If I hadn’t gotten hung up in Ophir fixing my sled, that gold would’ve been mine.”
“That’s all part of racing, right?” It’s a complex chain of speed, timing, and intuition, all of which can be derailed by countless variables, some manageable and others impossible to predict.
“Still, you should have seen the smug look on his face when I checked in. He was waiting to accept the trophy until I could get here, just so I could see him do it.”
“He had to take care of his dogs first.” Though I can’t confirm that Tyler didn’t take his time doing it.
But Harry’s not listening. “He didn’t leave that far ahead of me. Had to be pushing those dogs hard. You should check them out, make sure they’re fit to race.”
“I did check them when they came in. They were all fine.”
“Well, you need to check again—”
“I did, just now, and they’re fine,” I say through gritted teeth. I know what he’s doing. “How about I leave the racing stuff to you, and you leave the vet stuff to me, ’kay?” I throw the words he said to me in Rohn back in his face.
He works a retort around in his smarmy mouth, but when he meets my challenging glare, he seems to think better of it.
“I’m going to grab a bite—”
“Man, that last stretch coming in here last night was rough,” he cuts in, taking a sip of his coffee. “There were a bunch of markers missing.”
At least he’s attempting a normal conversation. “It happens. Those things aren’t permanently affixed to the ground.” It’s a monumental task every year to set some twelve thousand fluorescent-orange-tipped lath markers so the mushers don’t get lost, especially if caught in a blizzard. “You told the crew so they can go out and fix them, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, of course. And sounds like people made it through fine.” He pauses in thought. “Skip said they were down when he went through, too. Makes ya think, doesn’t it?” He glances in Tyler’s direction again. “It’s like someone kicked them over.”
There’s only one “someone” that could be.
I realize which angle Harry’s working, and my disgust swells. Not only is he arrogant enough to think he can manipulate me like this but it’s beyond poor sportsmanship. “So, first, you accuse him of pushing his dogs too hard to get here ahead of you, and now you’re saying he took time out of racing to sabotage you? A guy who went out of his way and put himself in danger to help Larry Reese in the gorge? Who stayed with him the whole way to make sure he made it in?” That story is circulating through all the checkpoints, earning Tyler prominence among both vo
lunteers and mushers. “Harry, if you start going around accusing him of things without any proof, it’s going to look bad, and not on him. On you.”
“I didn’t say it was Brady,” Harry stumbles as he backpedals over his allegation.
“He was the first one through. Who else do you think it could be?”
“Yeah, well … How is that possible, anyway? He’s a rookie. How’s he in the lead?”
“Maybe he’s just that good, Harry.”
He sneers as if tasting something sour. “Whose side are you on here?”
I’ve run out of patience. “The dogs’ side. Always the dogs. Now go and take care of yours. I’m sure they’re as hungry as I am.” I move to leave.
“Wait, Marie—”
“And don’t lecture Lynn again, unless you want to get strangled in your sleep.” The list of potential assailants is growing by the minute. I’m ready to add my name to the page.
I march for the hut, not waiting for his response.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Laughter spills out with the warmth as I slip into the hut, shutting the door quickly behind me.
“… thought there might be a critter hidin’ up in there, but there was nothing! And he spent half an hour barking at the damn tree before he’d run again!” Gary slaps his thigh as he chortles. “I sat there on my sled, freezin’ my nuts off. I swear, he’s the sweetest boy, but he’s got bricks for brains.”
A few volunteers are awake at this hour, and three of them are cramped around the table, holding paper plates for Karen to fill and sharing stories while they mentally prepare for the day. Most of these people just love the sport and the dogs, but some, like Gary, are recreational mushers themselves, and a few have tackled the two- and three-hundred-mile races—snack-sized qualifiers for anyone running in the Iditarod.
“Look who decided to join us!” Karen flips a pancake on her propane griddle. “I heard Terry burned the midnight oil and let you log in a few extra. Hope it helped?”
“It did. I’ll have to thank him for that.” And for sending Tyler to my tent. I hang my coat on a bent nail—a makeshift hook—by the door. The woodstove is kept blazing in the hut, and most people need to escape to the outdoors for relief. Sometimes I think that’s by design, so no one lingers too long inside.
“Annie’s about five miles out.” Karen checks the watch strapped to her sturdy wrist. She’s down to her base layer and an apron while she cooks. “After that, we likely won’t see any new teams rolling in until the afternoon. So, you might be able to get a little more rest.”
That depends on where Tyler is. He’ll grab a few more hours once his dogs are settled, and I can’t see myself getting a second of sleep, no matter how tired I am, if he’s lying beside me.
Hopper reaches for another helping of pancakes.
“That’ll be your fifth and final one,” Karen announces with a warning stare.
The race judge drops his jaw in mock shock. “Who decides on these portions?”
“My wrists do! And my balance!” She looks pointedly down at the wooden crate she’s standing on. More than one person has offered to saw inches off the legs to lower the counter-height table, but she insists this height is best for the masses. “I’ve got twenty volunteers to feed, plus all the press coming through, plus hungry mushers who could use a warm meal.”
The sixty-one-year-old grandmother of three runs a kitchen in a greasy diner in Fairbanks. I’m sure she’s used to having four skillets and countless spatulas going at once. Maybe not while standing on a box.
“Fair enough, but look at me!” Hopper gestures at his tall, beefy frame. He stands at well over six feet and looks like he hasn’t missed a meal in his entire life plus a few extras on the regular. “Five pancakes won’t get me through the morning!”
“And that’s why you also get a sausage.” She taps the pan that holds the lean red reindeer meat links before slipping her spatula under another pancake. “Marie, dear, grab yourself some food while it’s hot. You barely ate last night.”
I help myself and shift into a free spot, balancing my plate on one palm while I press my fork through the fried batter to try to cut it. “Does anyone have an update on Sam’s flight here?” With the steady stream of mushers and their teams coming through beginning this afternoon, some staying to give their dogs a rest, other’s plowing through in minutes, the more veterinarians for the task, the better.
“Not yet, but they’ll get her here in time, don’t you worry. It’s supposed to be a sunny day.”
I sense Hopper looming beside me. I look up to find him staring at my plate.
“You gonna eat all those?” he asks, earning my laugh. It’s all in good fun, and yet Karen hops off her wooden crate and chases him away with her spatula and “Get outta here!” like he’s a stray dog.
He scuttles out the door, snatching his winter coat on the way.
My breath catches as Tyler passes him on the way in. He gets more attractive every time I see him.
“The man with the gold has come for breakfast!” Karen exclaims in the same singsong tone she used for me.
“I heard there was a hot meal in here.” Pretty eyes drift over faces, stalling a few extra beats on mine.
I feel a stupid grin forming, so I shovel in a forkful of pancakes to quell it. Only it’s too much food, and I’m left struggling, pretending that my mouth isn’t full. This can’t be an attractive look.
“Hungry?” Karen asks, already loading up a plate.
“Not as hungry as Marie, from the looks of it.” Tyler’s smile is sly as he shucks his coat and hangs it.
I focus on chewing and marveling at the way Tyler moves, remembering what’s under that thick wool sweater and ski pants.
“Ration’s five pancakes and a sausage link. Two for you, because you need your strength.” Karen winks as she hands him his plate. “Just don’t tell Hopper.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.” He sidles in beside me, though there’s more space on the other side. “Good?”
I moan in answer, unable to manage a coherent word.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he murmurs, digging in.
“You’ve surprised a lot of people, rookie.” Gary shuffles over to pour himself more coffee. “You’re a real contender now.”
“As opposed to before?” There’s a hint of arrogance in Tyler’s tone, but in this case, it seems warranted. He did win the Finnmark race.
“Alaska’s its own beast, as I’m sure you’ve already learned. Hope you got a few hours of decent sleep last night.”
“Started out rough, but I definitely didn’t want to leave my bed when I woke up.”
I keep chewing, hoping my flushed cheeks aren’t too obvious.
“Yeah, I’ll bet a warm tent is better than a bale of straw out in the snow.” Gary sets the empty pot back on the machine.
“You empty it, you brew it!” Karen chirps, not even turning from her griddle.
“Jeez, you got eyes on the back of your head, woman?”
She responds with a raucous cackle. “Sure do. And that thing takes twenty minutes, so you better get started.”
Gary smooths fingers over his graying mustache while he studies the machine, a perplexed frown on his face as he lifts a flap and tests a few buttons. “This is different from mine.”
“Here. I got it.” Tyler shifts past me, his hand brushing my thigh in the process—whether by accident or intentionally, I can’t tell—and sets his plate down to free his hands.
Another plus for Tyler: Doesn’t balk at stepping in where needed, even for something as trivial as making coffee. My brother-in-law Jim would not have budged.
The list of appealing qualities grows.
Saves neglected animals, check.
Helps injured people, check.
Incredible kisser, even while unconscious. Check, check.
Gary moves out of the way to watch Tyler measure the grinds. “You got some good-lookin’ dogs there.”
“Thank
you,” Tyler says smoothly. “They come from strong lines of distance runners.” A practiced response that he’s probably given countless times.
“Oh, no doubt! Winning that big Finnish race, now makin’ good time in the Iditarod as a rookie. There’s talk you might win this. Wouldn’t that be something? It’s been decades since a rookie won.” Gary’s voice brims with approval. “You planning on breeding any of those dogs for sale? ’Cause I know of a few people already askin’.”
“I’m considering it. To the right people.” Tyler sets the brewer, collects his plate, and shifts back to his spot beside me.
Gary’s momentarily distracted by a question from the other volunteer, and I’m guessing that’s fine with Tyler because he doesn’t seem overly interested in continuing that conversation.
I’ve finally swallowed my pancakes. “I didn’t think you were serious about breeding them.” I thought he said that in a moment of spite.
“I wasn’t. But I also was.” He carves into his sausage link. “The idea’s growing on me.”
“Hey, you’re out near Fishhook, aren’t you?” Gary suddenly asks. “Near the Hatchetts?”
“Right beside them,” Tyler confirms, his tone flat as he mumbles, “unfortunately.”
I give him a gentle elbow followed by a warning look. “Behave,” I whisper. Gary’s wife and Bonnie volunteer together at the Trapper’s Crossing Christmas party and talk often.
His heated gaze flitters to my lips before it flips back. “Or what?”
My mouth goes dry as I search for a suitable answer.
“Well then, you best be careful with those dogs of yours. There’s a thief in your area.”
Gary’s caution grabs my attention. “What do you mean? Someone’s stealing sled dogs?”
“I guess you didn’t hear the crazy story Jody Snyder was tellin’ back at the hotel during registration.” Gary dumps Coffee-Mate to his cup and stirs. “His uncle had a dog stolen right out of his kennel.”
“Jody Snyder.” That name rings a bell. “His uncle is Zed Snyder.” A two-time Iditarod champion and well known in the community. Last I heard, he’d retired from racing and was doing tourist excursions.