by K. A. Tucker
“That’s the one.”
Beside me, Tyler chews quietly, seemingly indifferent to this concerning story.
“What happened?”
“Well, accordin’ to Jody, Zed fed ’em their evenin’ meal and they were all there when he went to bed. The next morning, he was short one.”
“Maybe it broke off its chain?”
“No, ma’am. The chain was fine. The collar was hangin’ off it, as if she slipped out. And the door to the enclosure was sittin’ open to make it look like Zed forgot to close it, but he says he didn’t forget to close that door. It looked like someone tried to cover their tracks, scrapin’ their boot prints out of the snow with a shovel. But the trail led up to her house. He swears someone came right in and took her.”
This is troubling. “Why her?”
“Not sure. She was up there in years, but she’s produced some nice racers. Tom Scalding and Kerry Rice both have sled dogs from Zed.”
I know both mushers. They’ve finished in the top ten in the Iditarod previously.
“She was a pup from one of Zed’s favorite lead dogs. A pretty blonde with one blue eye and one brown.”
An eerie prickle of familiarity trickles down my spine.
Beside me, Tyler shifts in his boots.
“Where’d you say Zed lives again?”
“Out his way—” He juts his chin toward Tyler, who seems intently focused on his plate of food. “Near Fishhook, on the Wasilla side.”
I concentrate on my breathing as I process this information. If Nymeria is the dog they’re talking about, that means Zed Snyder, a world-class musher back in the day, did that to her.
But Tyler’s story doesn’t line up with Gary’s. Did someone steal the dog and let it loose in the woods? Or was Tyler lying to me? Did he slip onto Zed’s property and take the dog right from beneath Zed’s nose while he slept?
And what about all the other dogs? “Wouldn’t Zed have heard the commotion?”
“That’s what I said! ’Cause no one’s walking into my kennel at night without stirring up a heck of a lot of noise. But he takes his hearing aids out at night. Didn’t hear a damn thing.” Gary waggles his index finger in the air. “Either this person knew that, or they got some big brass balls to be strollin’ into a man’s kennel.”
“Strange that I haven’t seen anything in the newspaper about it. Seems like a story the community would jump on,” Tyler says casually. Too casually. “He must have reported it, right?”
Gary frowns. “You know, now that you mention it, I’m stunned I didn’t read about it in the paper. Jody said his uncle was talkin’ about retirin’ her soon, but a man’s property is his property, no matter what, so why wouldn’t he go to the cops?”
“Good question.” Tyler collects his remaining sausage in his fingers and tosses his plate in the bin on the way to the door. “Thank you for the hot meal. Much appreciated.”
“Oh, you’re so welcome, darlin’.” Karen beams. “Now you go on and get some more rest before you’re off again.”
I watch Tyler’s back until the door shuts behind him, my mind reeling with questions.
“He’s a quiet one, huh?” Gary sips his coffee. “Likes to keep things close to his chest.”
Karen cackles with laughter. “Don’t know, but he’s definitely a handsome one.” She waves her spatula at me. “You two seem friendly. What do you know about our rookie?”
“Not much.” How good his mouth feels against mine. That’s about it, apparently.
“Heard he refused to give any interviews on the opening weekend,” Gary says. “Not a one.”
“He doesn’t like the attention,” I hear myself say, and it feels like a defense.
Karen snorts. “Well, I’m sure his neighbor stepped in to fill more than enough time slots.”
That stirs Gary’s laughter. Everyone has an opinion about Harry, and it’s usually not flattering.
The volunteer standing next to him—a trailblazer named Eric, I think—pipes up. “I think he’s racing his wife’s dogs.”
My teeth are halfway into a bite of sausage when my stomach drops to the plywood floor. “His wife?” He’s married?
Eric winces. “Not anymore. She died. A few years ago, I think? I was reading some old articles online about him. Finnish news. She’s the one who got him into mushing. Her family has a kennel in Finland. They’re big into racing.”
Of course. There must be write-ups on Tyler there, given he won their big race. Why hadn’t I ever looked him up? My father mentioned relatives in Finland, only he thought it was Tyler’s family. But if he married her, then they’ve become his as well.
“Some of those dogs were hers, I think.”
My mind drifts to that badge on his sleeve.
Team Mila.
I’ll bet that’s not a sponsor.
I’ll bet that’s his late wife.
“Do you know how she died?” She had to have been young. Cancer? Car accident?
Eric shakes his head. His frown says, if it was mentioned, he doesn’t remember.
I chew my food without tasting it as I replay that moment this morning with a new understanding. That’s who Tyler was reaching for in his sleep. That’s who he was kissing, professing his love to.
His dead wife.
And then he woke up to a harsh reality.
To me.
My appetite has all but vanished, but I don’t dare toss the rest of my sausage link in the trash in front of Karen. Copying Tyler’s move earlier, I shift for the door, tucking it between my teeth just long enough to pull on my jacket and hat. “Thank you for breakfast.”
“Uh-huh. Lunch is chicken noodle soup and ham sandwiches, and we’ve got moose chili for supper.”
I duck out the door as I’m mentally tallying the nights I’ve had chili so far. It’s been all of them, except for that one night someone made moose stew. The roadkill lottery has been generous this year.
I spot Tyler right away, perched on a stump stool beside the blazing fire, stitching poly rope for his gangline. He looks up to see me but then shifts his attention back to his task—no smile, no beckon. Nothing to suggest he wants to explain himself.
He must realize that he’ll need to. At least to me.
I gather my thoughts as I approach, deciding how to broach … what, exactly? Which topic is less icy to tread on: His status as a widower or dog thief?
“I thought you’d already be asleep.” I settle down on the log next to him. There are eight stools around the fire—hunks of a giant hardwood, hauled in by snowmachine or ATV from a terrain where more grows than these spindly black spruces.
“Soon.”
I watch the flames dance and listen to the fire crackle as I consider that day we met. The more I think about it, I already know the answer. Reed said they’d get in trouble if anyone found that dog on their property. At the time, I assume he meant because she had been neglected, but that wasn’t it.
It’s because someone stole her from Zed Snyder.
Tyler chuckles. “You like to choose your words before you speak, don’t you?”
“I’m not usually one to blurt something out, no. Not unless I’m really upset.”
“And are you? Really upset?” He studies me.
I consider that question. I assume he means about Nymeria and not the whole mistaking-me-for-his-dead-wife bit. He doesn’t know that I know, and it’s not like there has been a reasonable—or expected—place for him to bring her up. “No. I don’t think so.” I pause. “But why?”
“Besides the obvious?”
He hasn’t denied committing the crime.
He peers over his shoulder, scanning our surroundings that brighten with each passing minute ahead of an impending sunrise. Everyone is busy with tasks or huddled in their warm tents, resting. “I was in Wasilla, meeting with some friends in a pub. Zed was there. He sat down to shoot the shit for a while, and I overheard him talkin’ about a dog he was set to retire. The last litter she gave was
small, the puppies not looking like good sled dogs. She’d made him a lot of money over the years, but she’d hurt her leg in a fight with another dog recently, and it wasn’t worth spending the money to get it fixed. She was eight. He figured it was time for her to go.”
My teeth grind. “And by ‘go,’ you don’t mean adopting her out to a good home.”
Tyler shakes his head. “Wouldn’t even consider it.”
Fucking Zed Snyder. He’s clearly of that ilk, the type of musher who thinks it’s reasonable—humane, even—to put a dog down when they’re no longer “working” for him. They draw a solid line between a sled dog and a family pet and are adamant the two can never wear the same label. My parents have three retired sled dogs who prove that isn’t true. In Nymeria’s case, at eight, she could still have another six years of a happy life in someone’s loving home.
Fortunately, this type of musher is few and far between nowadays. Unfortunately, they do still exist. And worse, there’s no way to stop guys like Zed from “retiring” their dogs when they’re no longer of use, no state law to protect dogs like Nymeria.
This is at the very root of the issue I have with the sport in our state.
“So you, what, followed Zed home from the bar?”
Tyler’s bare hands work smoothly over the rope, as if the cold doesn’t bother him. “I didn’t need to. It’s easy enough to find information around here.”
“Oh right, your police chief buddy. He’s willing to bend rules for you?” Or outright break them.
“Speaking of friends who bend rules, how’s your animal control officer doing?”
Touché. “He’s great. Thanks for asking.”
Tyler smirks, but his amusement slips quickly. “I was still thinking about the guy and the dog a few days later. Couldn’t shake it for some reason. I started thinking that I should take a trip over and see if she was still alive. And then I wondered what I’d do if she was. I knew he wouldn’t give her up. That kind of guy is set in his ways.” He collects another piece of poly rope from his box. “I saw Zed’s hearing aids. I knew he’d likely take them out at night to sleep and probably wouldn’t hear anything if someone were to go in there. So I decided to risk it. And when I saw her, when I saw how she’d been kept …” The muscle in his jaw ticks. “I wanted him to hear the dogs barking, I wanted him to come out and explain himself to me. I would have …” His voice drifts, the words left hanging.
“So you took her.” A risk, given he wouldn’t know if she had been microchipped.
“Yeah,” he admits. “Brought her home, tried to make her comfortable. Called Frank to tell him I’d found an injured dog wandering in the woods who needed care. It was Saturday night, though. Couldn’t get hold of him.”
“Yeah, Frank doesn’t give out his home number, even for emergencies.”
“And you do?”
“For my patients? Of course.” Sometimes I regret it, especially at two in the morning when I get a call because a cat is hacking on a hairball.
“The rest happened like I said it did.” He tosses the rope into a crate. “But now she’s doing well. Her leg is on the mend. She’s putting on pounds, getting used to our dogs and her new home. Her new life.”
Surely, she would have been dead by now. If not by the end of Zed’s gun barrel—because he’d be too cheap to pay for a needle—then from festering wounds. “What about the other dogs in the kennel? How were they?”
“I did a quick once-over because I needed to get out of there, but they seemed fine from what I could see. Someone should pay a visit, though.”
And someone named Howie will. I’ll make sure of that. “You basically trespassed and stole a dog that was on death row.”
“Not basically. Exactly. And if I had to do it again, I would, a hundred times over.” His smile is soft. “There is no line.”
A shiver runs down my spine as he echoes my words from earlier. How can I fault him for doing what he did? What I would do, if I had the nerve. I can’t. I can only like him more for it. If I have a weakness for anything besides an injured or scared animal, it’s for the man who’s willing to swoop in to save it.
Really, there’s nothing I find more attractive.
But worry gnaws at me. “The Hatchetts know about the dog. If they hear Jody’s story, they’re going to put two and two together and Harry is, well, feeling threatened by you.” That’s becoming clearer with all his pathetic accusations and conjecture. “He won’t be quiet about what he knows.”
“The only people who know the truth are you, me, and Reed. As far as anyone else knows, I found a neglected dog wandering in the woods and brought her home.” He shrugs. “And if Zed or Harry wants to stir up shit, let them try. I have all Frank’s reports on her condition when I found her, and I’ll make sure those newspaper people write about how an Iditarod champion abused one of his dogs. A dog whose pups a few of these mushers around here are racing now. My guess is Zed was afraid of how it’d look if people tied her to him, and he didn’t want to risk stirring up attention. Probably been tiptoeing on eggshells.”
And the Hatchetts wouldn’t want that kind of attention, either. Earl bred a few of his dogs with Zed’s. Plus, any negative news against a musher is bad for the sport overall. While Harry might have seen Tyler as a threat worth going after, Zed’s crimes would only hurt the Hatchetts’ kennel in the end.
Tyler has given this serious thought.
“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
“What kind of secrets are we tellin’?” The snow crunches beneath Hopper’s heavy boots as he storms up to the bonfire, lifting his arms over it as if to collect some warmth. “You whisperin’ sweet nothings to our beautiful veterinarian, musher?”
“That’s what I was just telling her, actually. How beautiful she is.” Tyler’s eyes roam my features, and I see appreciation within.
I’m caught off guard by the blatant compliment, even if it’s just a cover for our conversation, and I feel my cheeks flush.
“We got a team comin’ in.” Hopper abandons the fire. “Number forty-two!”
“I guess that means I’m back on duty.” I peer over my shoulder toward the trail, and then at the bodies on the move, readying to greet them. They’ll be here in minutes. There’s no sign of Terry. He must still be in the tent. I’ll let him sleep, seeing as he was kind enough to do the same for me last night.
“You planning on greeting number forty-two with that?” Tyler nods to the half-eaten reindeer sausage I still have within my mitt.
In the depth of our conversation, I’d forgotten it. I laugh, shove it into my mouth, and stand, stretching to rid myself of the chill of the hard surface against my backside. The move does nothing for my reluctance. “You should get your sleep while the dogs are resting,” I say between chews. Because he’ll be lucky to get one or two hours over the next several days that it’ll take to get to the finish line in Nome.
He tosses the line he was working on into the crate. “I will.”
Will he still be sleeping later when it’s my turn to nap? If I lie down next to Tyler, will I catch a repeat of this morning?
The practical side of me asks if I want that, without learning more about this guy. But now is not the time to ask about his late wife. I wouldn’t even know how, anyway. But he’s been flirting with me all morning, so he must have made peace with the loss.
He just told me he thinks I’m beautiful.
“Hey, Marie?”
I stall, happy for any excuse to linger. “Yeah?”
“If I’m not up by noon, you mind waking me?”
It’s not uncommon for a musher to ask a volunteer for a wake-up call. It’s on our list of duties. And yet nerves stir in my stomach. “No problem.”
“Just, you know,” he peers at me from below that thick fringe of lashes, “give me a kick, or something.”
“A kick?” I echo. “Is that what you want?” That isn’t what I had in mind.
He bows his head for a moment
and when he lifts it again, he’s grinning. “Or something.”
The volunteers are beginning their celebratory cheer as the dogs charge forward, tongues lolling. It’s time for me to go, though I want to follow Tyler back to the tent.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re up.” I march away before he can see the color in my face that isn’t caused by the cold. I’m halfway to the checkpoint entrance when I can no longer fight the urge to peek over my shoulder.
Tyler is still sitting on the stump, watching me, his expression pensive.
CHAPTER NINE
“I’m starvin’.” Jonah rubs his stomach. “What do they got here today?”
“Soup and sandwiches, Karen said earlier.”
Hopper, within earshot, corrects, “A sandwich.” He drops a hand on Jonah’s shoulder. “Not nearly enough to feed men our size, my friend. Not nearly enough.”
It’s true that they’re both big men with appetites, though where Hopper’s parka stretches across a bulbous midsection, beneath Jonah’s down coat, there’s nothing but flat muscle.
“How big are these sandwiches?” Jonah squints at the hut. The sun has climbed high in the sky, and its reflection against the blanket of snow is blinding without sunglasses, which he must have left in his plane when he arrived at the checkpoint with Sam.
As thrilled as I was to see the familiar orange and white plane, I can already hear the complaints brewing on his tongue. Jonah gets cranky when he hasn’t eaten—worse than me. “Don’t start whining.”
“Shut up.” He gives my shoulder a playful shove. “You hungry?”
“What time is it?” I ask casually. As if I haven’t been acutely in tune with the minutes and hours passing since I parted ways with Tyler, obsessing over how soon I can slip into my own sleeping bag under the guise of a nap. But I haven’t had a chance. Annie swept through and dropped two dogs in our care before she continued on, both sweet girls showing hints of a tendinitis flare-up. And then the buzz of the approaching plane announced Sam’s arrival, who happened to be catching a lift with Jonah, and … here we are. I’m equal parts exhausted and wired.