Running Wild: A novel

by K. A. Tucker

  “Dad!” I hiss, glaring at him. I told him that in strict confidence, never to be repeated. It’d be bad enough if the mushing community found out about his gallant dognapping. Now that I know what his off-season gig is, what would his boss do if he found out?

  “Don’t worry, I haven’t said anything to anyone. What is he? Thirty-five? Thirty-six?”

  “Thirty-seven. Why?”

  “No reason. It’s just … that’s a good age. He saves animals and people. Not squeamish. And he sure is a handsome fellow. Polite. Nice teeth.”

  I groan. “Not you, too—”

  “I just don’t see why you can’t be friends.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Probably not that complicated.”

  “It is. And we’re not doing this now.” Or ever. It’s bad enough I’m constantly badgered by my sisters and brothers-in-law.

  “Can’t a dying father share his last wish for his daughter’s happiness?”

  “Oh my God, stop it!” I can’t help my laughter. “You’re not dying.”

  He winces with pain. “I might, after your mother finds out about this.”

  Fear that my father might say something highly inappropriate in front of Tyler urges me to explain in a whisper, “He lost his wife and unborn son two years ago.”

  Dad grimaces. “Oh, now that you mention it, I do remember Grant telling me that.”

  “So he’s nowhere near dating anyone, anytime soon.”

  “Here!” Tyler hollers, waving. Two male paramedics are making their way down, a stretcher in hand.

  Yukon and Bentley take off toward the newcomers, barking.

  Tyler’s sharp whistle reins them in.

  “Oh, would you look at that,” Dad murmurs as we watch Tyler collect their leashes and give them each a friendly pat. “Dogs know the good ones, Marie. Dogs always know.”

  * * *

  The sight of my father lying in the back of an ambulance brings both relief and anxiety. “I’m going to take them home and then I’ll meet you there, okay?” I holler as the paramedic is about to shut the door.

  “Tell your mother it’s too late to get a refund on me,” he calls back, his voice strained.

  The paramedic chuckles as he closes them in.

  I shift out of the way, hugging myself as I watch the ambulance driver maneuver the wide switchback in the road so he can turn around and head toward the route to the hospital in Wasilla.

  Tyler smiles. “He’s a funny guy, that one.”

  “He can be.”

  The dogs are testing Tyler’s grip on their leashes, but they’ve settled with each command from him.

  “Here. I’ll take them. Thanks.” I reach for the leashes, grabbing them below the handle to avoid any contact. Simple hand grazes always seem to be my undoing.

  Tyler watches Bentley with interest. “They were sled dogs?”

  “Yeah. Retired. The owner wanted Yukon to be a sled dog, but he had other plans. Didn’t you?” I scratch his chin. “I should get them home and let my family know what’s going on.” I begin backing away. “So … thank you, for your help.”

  “Just doin’ my job.” He lifts his hat off his head, only to put it back.

  I stumble over a step.

  Jonah does that all the time.

  In fact, so many things about Tyler remind me of Jonah. He’s nowhere near as brash as Jonah can be, but there’s that quiet confidence and a deeply ingrained integrity that screams of always doing the right thing and helping where he can.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, and I realize I’m staring.

  “Nothing. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” Seeing as I can’t seem to avoid him.

  “I was hoping to talk to you, actually.” He steps forward, his focus drifting along the shallow valley, the result of a glacier wearing down rock between the ridges. “I’m looking for a new veterinarian.”

  “Frank’s not working out?” I already suspected that would eventually be the case, given our conversation at the checkpoint.

  “No, Frank and I are not working out. Our personalities don’t mesh, and the fucking guy won’t pick up his phone.”

  “Never would have guessed that.”

  “So, do you know of any good ones?” He’s watching me carefully, the fringe of long, dark lashes making his irises pop.

  I think I know what he’s asking, but I could be wrong. I’ve misunderstood Tyler before. “What exactly are you looking for?”

  “I want someone available to me when my dogs need them. Within reason, of course, but I want someone who’s going to answer their phone when I call, give advice when I need it, and come out when they need to. Someone I can trust to do what’s right by my dogs, always.”

  Tyler calling me at all hours of the day and night?

  Something tells me he’d be calling me a lot. Possibly more than Harry. With Harry, it’s because he’s young and inept. With Tyler, it’s because he appreciates a professional opinion.

  It’d be a healthy income, I’ll admit, having two teams—one of them an Iditarod champion. Except Harry would lose his mind if he found out.

  But then I’d be spending more time with Tyler, and he’s already managed to creep into my thoughts too much when he’s not in my life at all.

  Yukon tugs at his leash, reminding me that we’re standing on the side of the road and my father is on his way to the hospital. I have priorities, and Tyler is not one of them.

  “You should give Don Childs a call. He’s in Wasilla, near the old Sears. Just off the highway. Let him know I sent you.”

  Tyler’s shoulders slump. It’s not the answer he wanted.

  But it’s the only one I can give him.

  “Thanks again for helping.” I rush out of there without another look back.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Grab me one of those, too, would ya, Marie?” my dad calls out around a bite of mashed potatoes.

  I reach for the fridge handle to fish out a second bottle of Coors Light.

  “Don’t you dare,” my mother hisses, her palm pressed against the door.

  The moment she turns around, I flash Dad a sheepish smile and mouth, Sorry.

  “I think I liked the hospital more.” He shoots a sullen look toward my mother’s back. “My nurses were a lot nicer.”

  “That’s because you listened to them,” Mom answers crisply, filling a tall glass with water from the Brita. She sets it and a glass ramekin in front of him at the dinner table.

  He glowers at the litany of prescribed pills in the little dish, as if deciding how much of a fuss he’s going to make. For a man so well-informed about the benefits of modern medicine, he’s never been good at taking a doctor’s advice.

  With a heavy sigh, she pleads, “Come on now, Sidney. Don’t be difficult tonight. Please.”

  It’s been two weeks since my father’s fall in Hatcher Pass, and everyone’s tired. He spent six days in the hospital. According to the doctor, as far as “bad breaks” go, it was a “good” one, and his leg should heal nicely with time. But it still required pins and a cast to just below his knee, and eventually, physical therapy.

  He’s been home for more than a week, and the days have worn on both my parents—my father, because of discomfort and limitations; my mother, for playing nursemaid to a frustrated old man, twenty-four hours a day.

  Liz has found an excuse almost every day for why she can’t make the thirty-five-minute drive over to help—Tillie’s ballet, Nicole’s art classes, Jim’s workload—and Vicki comes when she can, but with a fussy five-month-old baby attached to her, her help is divided and short-lived.

  So it’s mainly been my mother, and me whenever I’m not working. “Remember when I suggested we skip Sunday dinner this week?” Liz spears Mom with a knowing look as she drops a spoonful of stemmed broccoli onto Tillie’s plate.

  My niece’s mouth opens, disgust etched into her face.

  “Do not start. Not one word of complaint, or no dessert. Both of you,�
� Liz snaps, dumping a helping in front of Nicole, too, who looks equally displeased. “Would you pass the salt, hun?”

  On the far end of the table, Jim eats his dinner, tuning out everything and everyone around him, including his wife.

  Don’t strain yourself, Jim. I reach across the table and hand it to her.

  “But if you didn’t come, then I wouldn’t get to see my two favorite people, would I?” Dad steals a glance to make sure my mother isn’t watching and then, with a wink at his grandchildren, tosses a chunk of beef to Yukon’s waiting maw.

  The girls erupt in laughter, and their giggles help douse the growing tension in the kitchen just as Vicki and Oliver emerge from the living room.

  “Perfect timing.” Mom takes her own seat.

  “Yeah, we’ll see how long it lasts.” Vicki sinks into her chair across from me, checking the buttons on her shirt as if to make sure she didn’t stroll in with a breast hanging out.

  Molly has been a tough baby—first with colic, and lately with a string of recurring ear infections that will require ear tube surgery in a few weeks. I’ve never seen my little sister so tired before. She’s normally the one with fresh highlights and a well-chosen outfit. Now, her blond ponytail is frayed and sloppy, her oversized plaid shirt one of her husband’s.

  “How’s work, Oliver?” Fishing charter season is in full swing again, and he’s gone from morning until night, seven days a week. This is the first time he’s made it to Sunday dinner since April.

  “Man. Busy.” He stabs two slices of beef with his fork and drops them onto his plate. For such a lanky guy, he can eat more than anyone at this table. “My boss said we’re booked solid until September. All day, every day. It’s good, though. We need the money.”

  I don’t doubt it. Oliver’s the only one working right now. Vicki has spent the better part of the last decade figuring out what she wants to do by process of elimination—three years waitressing before she moved to real estate, where it took her three years to decide that selling houses wasn’t for her; a year working in a health store while considering a naturopathic career; one semester in a college fitness and health program with her sights set on a degree toward becoming a personal trainer. She even did a brief stint behind the desk in the clinic when Cory took a few months off to travel across Europe. The place has never been more disorganized than during that time.

  Last year, Vicki announced over Sunday dinner that she’d been hired to work reception in a local salon and had enrolled in a hair design program. It’s the most excited she’s ever been about anything … and then she found out she was pregnant.

  She’s completed two-thirds of her state-required education hours. We’re all hoping she’ll go back to it soon.

  “Did you mention it to her already?” Vicki elbows Oliver, her voice soft. “You know, about Steve?”

  “Well, not lately. I brought it up before, though, remember?” he says, equally soft.

  As if no one can figure out where this is going.

  I stifle my groan.

  “Hey, Marie, I think you and Ollie’s boss would hit it off. He’s big on the outdoors. Hiking and hunting. And fishing, obviously. And he’s good looking. Here, you have a picture, don’t you?” She holds her hand out for Oliver’s phone. “A bit more gray than I like, but a full head of hair.”

  “Hey!” Jim chirps, glaring at Vicki as he smooths a hand over the bald spot on the back of his head.

  “Doesn’t hear me asking him to pass the salt, but that, he hears,” Liz mutters to no one in particular.

  Vicki ignores them both—as she often does, she’s never been a fan of Jim’s—and holds up Oliver’s phone to show me a candid picture of a man in waders, standing in the middle of a river. “He’s forty-two. No criminal record. Smokes, but he’s trying to quit. One eighteen-year-old kid. So, proof that his plumbing works—” She waggles her eyebrows. “His ex is way out of the picture. She’s already with someone new.”

  I make a sound that might be agreement as I chew. The truth is Steve sounds more ideal than any of the guys Jim has tried to set me up with. He’s handsome enough, in a rugged, outdoorsy way, his hair wispy at the ends, and his face coated in graying scruff. He’s older than I am. Maybe that’s been my issue all along—chasing after younger men.

  But is this what my dating life has come to? My siblings taking secret shots of unattached associates at work and presenting their vices and sperm count to me over a platter of slow-cooked beef?

  “Oliver already showed him your picture, and he’s definitely interested.”

  “Which picture?” I give my brother-in-law an exasperated look. “Why do you have a picture of me?”

  He shrugs. “It’s the one Vicki sent me.”

  “The one from the clinic,” she clarifies.

  “The one on the wall?” My jaw drops a second before I burst out laughing.

  “God, no! That would have scared him away.” Vicki giggles. “No, the one on the desk. You’re wearing a black dress.”

  “Oh, right.” From Jonah’s wedding.

  “Well, he liked it, and he wants to meet you. So, what do you think?” she asks, pausing with a mashed potato-laden fork in the air, eager for my response.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Jim sets his cutlery down with a clatter and leans back in the chair to rub his belly. “That was fantastic, as always, Eleanor.” He’s always the first one finished. He’s also always the first one up from the table, leaving his dirty dishes for his wife—or anyone else—to collect.

  But tonight, he settles in with a toothpick. “I gave my buddy a call. The one in real estate I told you about?” His attention is on my father. “With the house and the clinic, plus that cabin, he’s saying you could get at least five hundred. Maybe more. The market around here’s hot right now.”

  Jim’s words take a moment to process, and when they do, they don’t make any sense. “What’s he talking about?” I shift my gaze from my dad to my mom, back to my dad. “What’s he talking about?”

  “Goddamn it.” Dad tosses his fork on the table. “I didn’t have a chance to bring it up yet.”

  “Oh.” Jim cringes at Liz.

  “Bring what up?” My stomach sinks as it all becomes clear. “You want to sell? You said you’d never sell.”

  “Never isn’t realistic, Marie.” Liz’s tone is patronizing, like an adult lecturing a child.

  Dad opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t seem to choose his words. “We’re just talking … we haven’t …” He ends his attempt with an annoyed glare at Jim.

  “I don’t think this is the appropriate time to have this conversation,” Mom says calmly, setting her cutlery down. Her meal is half-finished.

  But it’s too late for calm. “Well, no, because apparently, we were already supposed to have had this conversation.” My voice cracks as I stare at my father. “Why are you talking about selling the clinic with Jim and Liz? They have nothing to do with it. I’m the one running it.”

  “Yeah, into the ground.” Liz collects Jim’s plate and sets it on top of hers. “I’ve seen the numbers, Marie. It’s barely operational.”

  “Oh, no.” Vicki pinches the bridge of her nose. Beside her, Oliver keeps his focus on his plate.

  The idea that Liz has been scouring over the clinic’s revenue ignites my anger and squashes all semblance of civility. “First of all, my business numbers are my business numbers.” I scowl at Jim, my cheeks burning. “If my accountant can’t respect confidentiality, I’ll fire his ass. Secondly, the clinic brings in more money than it spends, which means it is profitable. But I guess someone who failed basic math twice might not understand that concept.”

  Tillie gapes at her mother. “You failed math?”

  Liz’s nostrils flare, and I know I’ve struck a chord. “Whose name is going to be on that loan for the new ultrasound?”

  “That’s none of your business. And I’m the one paying for it!”

  “Who owns the home you liv
e in, rent-free? Who owns basically everything you have, besides your truck? Not you! And I may not be as book smart as you are, Marie, but I’ve made smart choices for my life. Can you say that?”

  I know it’s a dig about Jonathan. “Having a husband who pays all your bills doesn’t make you smart, Liz. It makes you dependent.”

  “Girls, we’re not having this fight.” My dad tries to cut in.

  But it’s too late. Angry words that have been simmering under the surface for years are spilling out with the boil.

  “Oh, and you’re so independent?” A wicked smile warps Liz’s pretty face. “You want that clinic so bad? Buy it from them, then.”

  I grit my teeth. She knows I can’t afford that. “Dad wanted me to run it. He wanted to keep it in the family.”

  “Well, maybe they want something different now. Maybe they don’t want to spend their last years living off whatever meager monthly check you hand them. But you haven’t thought about that, have you? No, because it’s always about Marie. Everything is about Marie!”

  My dad bangs the table with his fist. “Enough!”

  Dead silence echoes through the house, his anger a rare and jarring spectacle.

  A symphony begins—first Nicole’s confused whimper, then Tillie’s poorly stifled sobs.

  Until finally Molly lets out a strangled wail from the other room.

  * * *

  I pause, my hands holding a pot in the sudsy sink, to watch the moose hover by the clinic door across the lawn. He’s young. Probably a little over a year old, and he’s standing there as if waiting for someone to unlock the front door and invite him in. Behind him, the evening sky glows with rich hues of orange. It’s almost ten p.m., but in the season of the midnight sun, it’s nowhere near ready to settle for the day.

  “He’s been coming around a lot,” Mom says from behind me, reaching for a tea towel and then a pot from the drainer. “Your father is convinced the one that driver hit down the road a few weeks ago was his mother.”

  “I think he’s right. They walked along the tree line during winter, but I haven’t seen her lately.” He hadn’t begun to grow his first set of antlers yet. Now, they’re blooming into a majestic crown atop his head.