Running Wild: A novel

by K. A. Tucker

  “And a monumental win it is! A thirty-seven-year-old rookie crossing under the Burled Arch with his full team …” The questions drift into another direction—about the race’s challenges, about what his postrace routine looks like, about next year—and I only half listen.

  Tyler would have been about thirty-five when he lost his wife. Not just her, either. A son, too. How did it happen? Did he drive her to the hospital, their hands clasped, their senses buzzing with excitement and nerves, and all the possibilities for years to come, of a full life together?

  Only to drive home alone?

  Mila’s bag in the trunk, empty car seat in the back.

  No wife.

  No child.

  What would she say about all he’s accomplished in her honor?

  How often does he think about her?

  I can’t imagine the pain that must consume him from the moment he wakes until he drifts off at night.

  How do you get over something like that?

  Not in two years, you don’t.

  Possibly never.

  My life is the way I want it. Uncomplicated.

  Our last parting is beginning to make more sense. Maybe I wasn’t imagining everything after all. Maybe there was a spark of interest there, at least a physical one, but it’s clear he’s still living for his wife.

  For a ghost.

  I can’t compete with a ghost.

  I’ll never win.

  I don’t even want to try.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  June

  “Linda told me they were interested, but that was back in January.” Harry scowls at Ginger, an aptly named husky with tawny fur, but his thoughts are not on the dog.

  “Then give her a call.”

  “I did. Twice.” His eyes cut to me. “Left a message, too. She hasn’t called me back yet. Same with Sam, and he was talking about taking a couple.”

  I know he’s hoping I’ll have an explanation to ease his worries. This is what happens during my visits to the Hatchetts’ kennel—Harry unloads his problems and looks to me for answers and reassurance. “She did scratch in this year’s race, and she’s getting up there in age. Maybe she’s thinking retirement soon, which means it doesn’t make sense to bring on a new dog. She’s raced, what, nine or ten times?”

  “Twelve.”

  “There you go. That’s a lot for anyone.”

  Harry works his jaw over his brooding thoughts. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

  I collect my black medical bag and begin heading toward my truck. My job here is finished, and my afternoon is full of appointments at the clinic.

  Harry lumbers beside me. Clearly, he’s not finished yet. “And Gary was talking about signing up for the next Iditarod and taking Dodger and Sailor, but I haven’t heard from him, either.”

  “Gary Seymore?” The volunteer from Cripple?

  “Yeah. He did the qualifiers with the two of them and made decent time.”

  The two huskies in question are standing on top of their respective houses, watching Harry’s hired help—a twenty-one-year-old named Benji with aspirations to race the Iditarod one day—check water dishes. They’re solid lead dogs. Obviously not Harry’s best, which he uses for his own team.

  “I agreed to give him a referral and everything.” Harry shrugs, like he doesn’t understand what else could be stopping Gary from racing next year.

  “He has time to commit. And four grand just to sign up is a lot. Plus your fees for those two.”

  He smooths a hand over the back of his neck. “What am I gonna do, if I keep breeding and training these dogs, and no one wants them?” He sounds less like the cocky ass who grins at spectators and more like the gangly boy who used to trail around Earl, hanging on to his every word.

  “I think you’re getting ahead of yourself,” I say calmly. “You have great sled dogs, and everyone knows that.”

  “My father never had this issue. People were lined up for our dogs when he was alive.” His eyes drift over the property. “If I’d won this year’s race, this wouldn’t be an issue. I should have won. I don’t know what happened.”

  Tyler beat him. That’s what happened, plain and simple. And in the months that have followed, I’ve heard Tyler’s name on more than one musher’s lips, along with questions about what the champion’s “stock” is like and whether he’ll be breeding or renting out his dogs.

  It wasn’t only Tyler who beat him, though. Harry didn’t come in second. He came in fourth.

  The truth is, Hatchett Kennels still produces top talent sled dogs—Harry knows how to train them—and many of the best mushers have lineage from here, but people have been lured away by the new and shiny—the Iditarod champion who relocated to Alaska with dogs of fresh lineage.

  But I’m not about to point that out. I have things to do, and Harry no doubt already knows.

  Now I just need to get out of here before Bonnie Hatchett arrives to complain about something. “I have to get back to the clinic. Bottom line, Ginger looks good, and I’ve given all of them their shots.” I nod toward the sizable kennel where the older puppies roam, untethered, curiously watching. They’re too young for training yet, still months away from mingling with the older dogs and learning the pecking order. “Change the bandages on Motto’s paw tonight before bed and use the ointment.” The dog got a big thorn stuck between his toes during a run that Harry couldn’t extract. “The usual deal with the bill okay?”

  Unlike Bradley Garvis and his ferrets—who never paid his bill and hasn’t been back since—I never worry about Harry paying. Cory will invoice him tomorrow, and he’ll swing by to settle within a day or two.

  “Yeah, about that.” His forehead puckers. “We need to come up with some kind of arrangement.”

  Unease slides down my spine. “What kind of arrangement were you thinking?”

  “I’ve been goin’ over numbers, and my vet bills are high, Marie.”

  “Well, yeah, you have seventy-five dogs.” It seems like I’m out here almost every week.

  “I get that. But my family has been loyal to your clinic for years. Decades, actually. Like, I crunched the numbers.” He pulls out a small notebook from his back pocket and flips through to show me a mess of hand-scratched calculations. “You’ve made a lot of money on us, especially over the last few years since my dad died.”

  “Because you’ve called me out here a lot.” Earl had years of experience. He knew how to pull a thorn from his dog’s paw and when to have it treated by a professional. “And you’ve gotten a lot of personalized veterinarian care during that time.” Where is Harry going with this?

  “Right, but am I paying what I should be paying? I mean, I’ve always been good to you, but business is business.” He falters. “I’d hate to have to look elsewhere.”

  I bite my tongue, waiting for him to continue.

  He adjusts his stance, pulling his shoulders back, and says firmly, “You need to do better with your rates and your service. That’s what I’m saying.”

  I struggle to keep my jaw from falling open. Does he realize how good I’ve been to him over the years? How many times I’ve prioritized his kennel over my other clients, dropping everything to race out here when he’s called? He already gets a discounted rate as it is. Hell, I don’t charge him a home visit fee or for my travel out here!

  But losing the Hatchetts’ business would be a significant loss of income. It wouldn’t completely ruin me, but it would hurt. The question is—what’s more important, my business’s bank account or my pride?

  I tamp down my shock and frustration and clear my throat. I need my father’s advice. “I will evaluate my costs and fees and get back to you. How about that?”

  “That sounds reasonable, Marie. I know you’ll come up with a plan. And, make no mistake, I appreciate you.” I sense triumph in that look. Like he assumes he’s won.

  I grit my teeth as I climb into my truck. With a standard wave out the window—I’d prefer to flash a middle finger—I e
dge my truck along the pothole-riddled driveway. It’s in desperate need of some fresh gravel. The property has fallen into disrepair since Earl’s death. I don’t know if that’s Harry’s inability to focus on more than the dogs, or if the money situation is worse than I suspected. Given this rehearsed speech he just delivered, it could be money related, but it could just as easily be Harry’s ineptitude.

  I’m fuming by the time I reach the end of their driveway. The fastest way to the clinic is to my left.

  I turn right instead, hoping the extra fifteen minutes I’ve just tacked on to my drive will clear my head.

  The driveway one over from the Hatchetts’ looks the same as when I last stopped with a handwritten letter in my grasp, only without the blanket of winter to veil the bramble on either side of the gate. I’ll bet that barrier has proven more useful with his newfound fame. The trespassing signs still hang prominently from the trees.

  But the personalized one for me has been taken down, I note, as I slow to a stop in front of the lane.

  It’s been three months since the race, and I’ve done my best to push out all thoughts of Tyler.

  After spending several days scouring the internet to read everything about Mila Rask and Tyler Brady’s life together, of course. It wasn’t hard to find information and pictures. Rask Huskies has an entire section dedicated to Mila—to her life, her achievements, which were impressive in the mushing community. She was gorgeous. Tall and slender, with sharp cheekbones, brown eyes, and jet-black hair rather than the more common to Scandinavian blue eyes and blonde hair. She styled it in various lengths, from pixie cut to a chin-length bob. And their life together looked perfect, living in Finland’s northernmost region of Lapland, on the family’s farm with a full staff of handlers and two hundred sled dogs trained to run tourist expeditions in the arctic wilderness.

  The disappointment that overwhelmed me when Tyler and I parted still lingers, a dull nuisance that reminds me every so often of those brief moments at the checkpoints—the looks, the smile, that kiss. All parts of a man who is still very much in love with his dead wife.

  If he wasn’t, it might have gone somewhere.

  I would have at least liked the opportunity to find out.

  I throw my truck in gear and continue, rounding the bend in the dirt road.

  A lone figure approaches, jogging in the middle of the road. These roads are so seldom used, it’s not surprising that a jogger wouldn’t use the shoulder, but the man isn’t making much effort to move, shifting only a few feet to his right, forcing me to slow to a crawl.

  I’m twenty feet away when I recognize Tyler.

  A curse slips out even as my heart races, my eyes sizing up the soft gray T-shirt that clings to his torso, and the simple black track shorts that highlight lean but muscular calves and thighs.

  A second curse slips when I realize he’s recognized me, and he’s coming to a stop.

  “Thought that was you,” he says through pants, giving his sweat-soaked T-shirt a tug away from his stomach, drawing my attention to cut biceps. “Here to see Harry?”

  “I was. I’m on my way back to the clinic now.”

  He points in the opposite direction. “Isn’t it that way?”

  “I have a stop to make,” I lie smoothly. He knows where my clinic is, which means he must have looked it up. I push aside the little spark that pricks me with that awareness. “Congratulations. You know, on winning.”

  He nods but doesn’t say anything more. Is this as awkward for him as it is for me?

  I swallow against this uncomfortable feeling that swells in my chest, torn between wanting to stay but then remembering our last exchange and thus desperate to leave. “So, what have you been up to? Besides polishing all your trophies.” It wasn’t enough that Tyler won the race and the purse that comes with it, and the halfway gold nuggets, but he also walked away with the Rookie of the Year, the sportsmanship award for helping Larry in the gorge, and the coveted humanitarian award.

  He offers a lazy smile. “You gave me one of those, didn’t you?”

  I shrug, though he likely already knows that the vote by the trail veterinarians for the Leonhard Seppala was unanimous this year.

  “I heard an animal control officer did an inspection of Zed Snyder’s kennel and jammed him up with a bunch of fines. Not having up-to-date rabies vaccinations, that sort of thing.”

  Good ol’ Howie. “That’s unfortunate.”

  “It is.” He studies me. “You haven’t come by to see the kennel at all. Why is that?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  He reaches up to wipe a smear of mud off the top of my side-view mirror. “Really? Couldn’t come by once in three months?”

  “You have a gate.”

  He smirks. “That’s never stopped you before.”

  “I’ll be sure to bring my bolt cutters next time I’m out this way, then.”

  His eyes narrow on the empty road. “Or you could just follow me back now.”

  His offer is tempting, for all the wrong reasons.

  Far too tempting.

  But what am I even doing? What’s the point? I already know where this leads—grave disappointment. “I can’t. I have a patient waiting.” That I’m already going to be late for.

  “Maybe some other time?”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” It comes out flippant, not at all convincing.

  And he must pick up on that because he backs away a few steps. “You’re angry with me.”

  “I’m not,” I counter.

  “You’re definitely less friendly than you were.” He folds his arms over his chest, drawing my focus to the thick pad of muscle the cotton clings to. “Is this because of Cripple? Because I was honest with you?”

  He’s blunt, like Jonah is blunt. That’s always been an attractive quality to me.

  In this case, it’s annoying. Tyler needs to be less attractive, not more.

  “No. I appreciate honesty, actually. I don’t like wasting my time.” I already wasted five years pining over a man I’d never have.

  “So, you’re saying friends are a waste of time. Wow. I wouldn’t have expected that from you, but good to know.” There’s discontent in his voice.

  I sigh. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Then what did you mean?”

  I wouldn’t know where to begin to explain myself. Furthermore, I have no interest in trying. A truck is approaching from the opposite direction. A good enough excuse for escape as any. “I have enough friends, is all. And I have appointments to get to. Take care, Tyler.” I throw my truck into gear and ease away. Leaving on a sour note is for the best.

  I fight the urge to check my rearview mirror until I lose.

  Tyler is still standing in the middle of the road, watching me go.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “God, Earl sure loved those dogs.” Dad’s aged blue eyes are on the hang glider as he sails past us. “I was afraid Harry would start mucking things up around there. He’s just too much like Bonnie, if you ask me, and she doesn’t have Earl’s way with people.”

  Harry’s father was much like mine—boisterous and easygoing, always one to share a joke or story. His mother, on the other hand, has always been the serious sort, fretting over things she can’t change and searching for problems in every situation so she can claim she saw them coming.

  I step over a fallen rock on the worn trail that rounds Summit Lake, watching Bentley and Yukon as they explore, their snouts to the ground. We left Aurora at home. She gets agitated in public parks. “Harry’s not a bad guy. He’s just had everything handed to him, and now he’s having to work to keep it. And it doesn’t help that Bonnie has convinced him that he can do no wrong.” She has always been one of those parents who can find fault in those around her child but never her child. Harry struggled in school? It’s because the teachers were inadequate in their jobs. Harry didn’t make a sports team? The coach couldn’t see real talent if it slapped them in the face. A girl doesn’t want to date Har
ry? Clearly, she’s a dimwit.

  He can’t afford to pay his bills?

  It must be because his veterinarian is gouging him.

  Bonnie didn’t do Harry any favors with her brand of parental cheerleading. He’s grown up in a cloud of entitlement, his ability to blame others for his failures almost an art form. And that failure hits him hard. I’ve had to give more than one pep talk over the years, including one after this year’s race.

  “She always did call him God’s miracle. Remember, they had a hard time having him. It took years. She was in her early forties when he came along. They’d all but given up on the possibility by that point.” Dad whistles and the dogs turn from their exploratory wanders to rush back. They’re not supposed to be off leash anywhere within the park, but Dad’s never been good at following rules, and walking dogs born and bred to pull as soon as they’re tethered is as easy as herding a pack of feral cats. It’s quiet in Hatcher Pass this early in the morning, so we’re not likely to offend anyone.

  “Earl would be rolling in his grave if he knew about this.” Dad shakes his head. “Has Harry paid his latest bill?”

  “Cory hasn’t sent it yet. I wanted to talk to you first. See what your gut says.” I’ve been sitting on it for three days.

  “Oh yeah?” Dad cocks his head. “What does your gut tell you to do?”

  I expected as much from him. “My annoyed gut tells me to send him the invoice and tack on a home visit fee. My sensible gut says I might want to look at what he spends in a year and then charge him a monthly average rate with a modest discount, so he feels like he’s getting something from me.”

  Dad makes a sound. “Two stomachs, Marie. You should get that looked at.”

  I snort at his lackluster joke. “Really helpful.”

  “You want my advice? Well, if we’re talking in digestive systems …” Dad watches as a marmot darts from a boulder and Bentley gives chase. It slides under another crop of rocks to safety. “The first one might make you feel good in the short run, but you’re gonna suffer down the road. The latter one sometimes makes things harder to digest in the short term, but in the long run, it usually works out better.”