by K. A. Tucker
“Complicate it how? Because of Harry?”
“No.” I laugh, though taking on Tyler would definitely complicate my relationship with the Hatchetts. But it already seems to be heading down that path. Harry grumbled at my monthly billing proposal and decided it best to keep things as they are, but he didn’t seem happy about it. Where that will lead—if anywhere—I don’t know. My father’s convinced it’ll go nowhere, and I hope he’s right.
Tyler’s forehead puckers. “Okay, then, is this because of what happened in the tent—”
“No.” My cheeks burn. Not just the tent. It’s about everything to do with this man, and how I find myself drawn to him. It’s about him breaking the law and risking his reputation and career to spare a dog’s life, and how he spends his summers watching over the parkland I love, how every time I find myself in Tyler’s vicinity, I’m acutely aware of him, and when he’s not around, he’s in my thoughts more than I care to admit.
It’s about how perfect he would be for me, if not for his unwavering devotion to his late wife. But even that is endearing.
Most of all, it’s how I don’t want to repeat past mistakes, how I need to guard my reckless heart.
“I don’t understand, then. Are you too busy here?” He gestures around the clinic. “Do you have too many clients?”
He’s handed me the perfect excuse. It would be so easy to lie, and yet I can’t form the simple yes.
And so I stand silent, like a fool.
“I want—no, I need—the best veterinarian in the area, the one who’s going to go the extra mile, who really cares about these dogs, who will tell me what I don’t want to hear. I know that’s you.” There’s a pleading quality to his tone that tugs at my heartstrings, and my ego appreciates the strokes. “I know you’re not about the money, but I’ll pay you extra if that’s what it’s going to take. I just want the best for them.”
Owning the role of the Iditarod champion’s kennel would be great for the clinic’s reputation, and twenty-one more dogs to care for would pad my revenue. After Sunday’s explosive dinner, turning Tyler away would be a stupid business move. It would prove that Liz is right, that I can’t make smart choices.
I take a deep breath. This is silly. I’m thirty-eight years old. I need to accept this relationship for what it is—strictly professional—and move on. I can stand to be around an attractive man and not fall hopelessly in love with him. “I’ll need to see your kennel before I commit to anything.”
Tyler’s mouth falls open, as if surprised that I bent so easily. “That’s fine.”
“And if I see something I don’t like, you’ll need to change it.”
“You won’t find anything. But okay.” He punctuates that with a nod.
“And I charge for travel time. To and from your place.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
It’s a good thing he’s not on civil terms with Harry, then.
“Perfect.”
I make a strangled sound. “Yeah, we’ll see.”
A curious look flickers across his face, but it vanishes just as quickly. “So, when can you make it out to my place?”
“I’ll check my schedule and get back to you.” Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, I feel that buzz of anticipation that comes with knowing I have an excuse to see Tyler on the regular.
It’s the same feeling I got when I was flying out to the villages with Jonah.
“Here, I’ll give you my number.” He leans over the front desk to grab a pen and scrap of paper. The move stretches his T-shirt across his body, pulling my attention to the cut of muscle across his back.
Which drags out memories of him pressed against me.
And so it begins.
He pats the paper once and then leaves it there. “I’m off today and tomorrow, so I can make any time work. You call and let me know.”
“Cory does the scheduling. She’ll let you know.” She’ll be more than happy to dial that number.
“Okay, well …” His gaze flitters over my scrubs before shifting to the mug shot on the wall. “I’ll let you get back to your one-eyed snake.”
I shake my head. “Why are guys all the same?”
His chuckles follow him out the door.
I take a few calming breaths.
I’m now Tyler Brady’s veterinarian.
This is not how I saw today going.
I’m going to regret this.
Cory plows through the door from the back. “What happened in the tent?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The last time I was at Tyler’s, the air was bitterly cold, the property was blanketed in snow, and I was angry.
Today, a warm summer breeze blows through my truck’s open window and across my cheek, the grass is green and freshly cut, and while I’m not angry, I’m certainly not at ease.
“Quick tour, in and out,” I tell myself, pulling up behind the green truck parked by the woodshed. The doors to the barn sit wide open, and several dogs mill around freely.
I check my watch. I’m a few minutes early, but the sooner I get this done, the sooner I can move on to a schedule of castrations and lumpectomies.
I hop out and smooth a hand over the front of my shirt, reminding myself again that the blue jeans and plain black T-shirt I settled on after trying four different outfits is perfectly adequate for inspecting a kennel. What’s more, this look says that I’m not trying to appeal to anyone. Especially not Tyler. I even skipped the mascara on my otherwise invisible blonde lashes.
I’m as plain as I can be without showing up in sweatpants.
Three dogs trot toward me, their tongues lolling. Two I recognize from the race, but the third, I—
Wait. “Nymeria? Is that you?” I ask, as if she might answer.
Her heterochromia and fur coloring give her away, but everything else about her is unrecognizable. She’s put on ten pounds, the bite marks have healed, and her limp is gone.
I lean down to give her my hand, but she surprises me by jumping up, her front paws landing on my chest while she licks my cheek.
I laugh, even as I stumble back a step, the move unexpected.
Heavy boots dragging across gravel pulls my attention to the right, my breath hitching with excitement. But it’s only Reed, strolling from the house with a bottle of water in hand. He’s in head-to-toe navy, save for brown hiking boots that he doesn’t fully lift off the ground with his steps. His clothes are streaked in dusty paw prints, and the curly black mop on his head is in disarray, as if he just rolled out of bed.
Now that I’ve seen pictures of Mila, I can see the family resemblance—the same dark hair, cow-brown eyes, and sharp jawline. He’s a good-looking kid, albeit a bit gangly.
He flashes a sheepish smile, his cheeks flushing, before his attention shifts to the dog. “She remembers you.”
As I’m sure he does, given our first meeting. “How are you, Reed?”
“I’m good.” H reaches out for the black dog. It comes running toward him without a moment’s hesitation.
“I’m here to see Tyler.” I look around the property. “Do you know where he is?”
“In the barn, but …” Reed frowns as he checks his watch.
“I’m a bit early, but he knows I’m coming this time.” I chuckle. “He unlocked the gate for me and everything.”
“Oh. Okay.” Accepting that, he moves toward the barn without another word, his stride lazy, as if it’s too much work to lift his feet.
I follow him, my curiosity brimming. “Tyler told me you moved here from Montana. How do you like Alaska so far?”
“Yeah, I like it.” He steals a glance at me before his focus is back on the path ahead, his fingers weaving through his hair. A rhythmic beat of rock music carries from inside.
“You lived with your parents before?”
“Uh-huh.”
I sense I’m going to have to pry answers from him. “How do you like living with Tyler?”
“It’s more fun t
han living with my parents.”
“I imagine it would be.” Even out here, in the middle of nowhere.
He steals another glance, this time grinning shyly. He just seems so innocent. I have to remind myself again that he’s twenty.
Tank trots out of the barn, and upon seeing me lets out an excited bark before speeding to greet me, sniffing my thigh.
“Do you guys normally let them run loose like this?” I scratch the lead dog behind the ear, wary of not standing too still after what happened last time I was here and he was off chain.
He shrugs. “Some of them, sometimes.”
“Some of them, sometimes,” I echo. That’s about as vague an answer as a person can give.
Reed leads me into the barn where the music is exponentially louder, and it smells of clean hay and fresh-cut lumber. I don’t know where to focus first. I’d never been to the Danson property, but it’s obvious the barn has been restored and converted into a keep for the dogs, with rooms on the right to house equipment and supplies for mushing. On the left, the stalls have small cutouts in the exterior walls. A giant shelf holds an array of trophies and framed photos, including the one of Tyler at the Iditarod. It pays homage not only to their achievements but to their past. In the center is a large photo of Mila on her sled, dressed in a red as vibrant as that of the barn.
I stop for only a second before a soft grunt pulls my attention past the area to an open space in the back corner.
My steps falter as I take in Tyler’s shirtless, dangling form, the muscles in his arms and back straining as he hoists his chin above the horizontal metal bar. Up and down he moves to the beat of the music, never breaking his stride, his skin coated in sweat, his track shorts hugging an ass that has clearly been hardened by countless squats and miles of jogging.
I realize with utter mortification that my mouth is hanging open.
And what’s worse, Reed is watching me drool over his brother-in-law, an unabashed grin of understanding on his face.
The song ends, and Tyler drops to the dirt floor. He’s reaching for his water bottle when he notices us standing there. “Marie.” The startled look on his face probably matches mine, but for vastly different reasons. “What are you doing here?”
I clear my voice, feeling my cheeks burn. “We have an appointment, remember?” Did he conveniently forget, so I could be treated to this when I arrived? He’s turned around and the front view is even more impressive than the back, taut from the muscle strain and damp from exertion, the peaks and ridges like that of a chiseled statue.
“Well, yeah, at nine.” He checks his watch. “Couldn’t wait to see me?”
“No. Cory booked us for eight.” Early enough that I could get back for my morning appointments without rushing.
“I do my workouts at eight on my days off. I told her that.” Tyler reaches for a towel that dangles from a bench press and wipes it across his forehead.
“Then there’s obviously been a misunderstanding because my calendar says eight,” I declare as I pull my phone out to prove myself right. “And she’s always good with …” My voice trails.
Eight a.m.: Tyler’s workout. Hopefully shirtless.
Nine a.m.: Kennel check at Tyler’s.
Cory must have revised my calendar moments ago. She’s added a smiley face and a “please don’t fire me” to the eight a.m. time slot.
She has never messed with my schedule like this before. I don’t know whether to be irritated or to laugh at her brazen attempt at forcing a connection that I already explained would never happen.
“What does it say?” Tyler is suddenly beside me, hovering over my shoulder.
I startle and slam my phone against my chest to hide the screen. “Doesn’t matter. I’m here, so let’s do this.” I tuck it into my back pocket as I take a few steps away from him.
Tyler laughs, smoothing the towel over his chest. “Come on, I don’t smell that bad.”
He smells like clean sweat, not bad in the slightest, but I’m not about to admit that.
He looks past me. “Do I, Reed?”
I’d forgotten the kid was here, witnessing this entire mortifying debacle. “I have a busy day ahead of me, so are you ready?” I didn’t intend the snippy tone, but it serves me well in this case.
Tyler reaches for a navy blue T-shirt hanging off the bench press. “I can be ready.” He tugs it over his head, covering his impressive body. “Come on, let me show you around.” He passes me with a secretive smile.
* * *
“This is all …” I search for a word that doesn’t make me look like a preening fool. I can’t find one. “I’ve never seen such attention to dogs before.” Not even the Hatchetts have a system like this in place, and Tyler designed and built it all, with Reed’s help.
The seven-foot-tall fencing that Howie and I saw when we were here last encloses an area of more than an acre around the barn, creating a barrier against wildlife—particularly wolves and moose. Within that enclosure are the individual kennels and a robust agility course for the puppies. Along the outside of the barn are large pens with double kennels, suitable for housing two dogs per, so they can roam and play freely. Each has a name plate for the dog, giving it a personal touch. There are also dogs in individual kennels with lengthy running circle chains. As Tyler walked me through, he explained the two-system approach, and how they choose which living style fits best for each individual dog, based on personality and racing skill.
The wooden kennels themselves are well built, sitting on stable blocks with snug entrances to protect from inclement weather, shields to block the wind, wide roofs that the dogs can sunbathe on, and big overhangs to provide adequate shade.
The wall of clipboards I noticed coming into the barn houses thorough information on everything—medical charts that include not only the basics—age, weight, and vaccination dates—but also weekly checks with detailed notes on everything from massage needs and nail trimming to medications and pressure sores, running and training logs with specific mileage for each dog, bedding changes, molting hair collection, feeding maps, female cycle schedules, injuries, and past fights. There’s also a comprehensive map coding every dog by character, and which dogs prefer their space versus the ones who want to be placed together.
“You track everything.” He’s a veterinarian’s dream.
“We transfer all this information to our computer once a week. I can open up a spreadsheet and show you each dog’s complete history from the time they were born, right down to how many miles they’ve run, every pound they’ve gained and lost, which muscle they’ve pulled, and how long it’s taken for a boil to heal.” There’s pride in Tyler’s voice. “It’s a lot of work, but it’s worth it. It’s how Tero and Anja Rask run their kennel, and how Reed’s father taught him. He takes care of this for me in the summer.”
Mila’s parents. He seems close with all of them. I watch the boy who sits in a lawn chair by the firepit, pulling a brush through Tank’s fur.
“The kid is meticulous with detail. Way more than me. I’m the one who made that mistake.” Tyler nods toward Nala, the now-pregnant lead husky lapping at her water bowl. An unintentional breeding when Tyler marked her cycle down in the wrong column and left her and Tank alone together.
But he owned up to it right away, rather than blame the kid. He’s not one of those men who’s too full of pride to admit his errors.
Another appealing quality that I don’t want to know about.
“Didn’t you say you wanted to breed Tank, anyway?”
“Yeah, but not with her, and not at that time.” His eyebrows draw together with worry.
“So, what are you going to do, then? Sell the puppies?”
“Doubt it, but I don’t have to make any decisions now.” He shakes his head. “I’m getting phone calls from people who somehow got my number and letters in my mailbox from people who found my address. If I didn’t have that gate, I’d have people driving up here daily. Linda Cogsby is looking for a new swing d
og. Some Sam guy needs a few team dogs. And remember that guy at the checkpoint? Gary something?”
“Gary Seymore. Yeah.”
“He called, wanting to know if I’d consider leasing some dogs so he could build a team to race the Iditarod himself. The guy couldn’t operate a damn coffee maker. As if I’d ever trust him with any of my dogs, if I had any to spare. I wouldn’t even loan him Pope for a five-mile Sunday tour.”
The mushers’ names are ringing alarms in my head. They’re the same people Harry mentioned a few weeks ago when he was complaining about interested people ghosting his calls.
I’m beginning to see where they’ve gone.
Right next door, as Harry has feared all along.
“For these puppies”—I point to Nala—“you’re either training them to race or selling them to someone who will. They need to run. It’s in their blood.” No matter what reservations I have about the bad apples in the industry, I’ve seen these mushing dogs leaping with wild excitement the second someone holds up a line, and howl with dramatic protest that only a husky can deliver when they realize they’re not going out that day.
“You’re right. I know you’re right. And my wife would want to know that her dogs are still out there running.” A wistful look touches Tyler’s face, and I can tell he’s drifted somewhere else.
Somewhere far away from me, to another life where he was someone’s husband and almost a father. I’m beginning to think Tyler spends a lot of time lingering with the dead. What must that do to a person?
“You bring the dogs into the barn on the very cold nights?” I ask, pulling him back to the land of the living.
He clears his throat. “Yeah, if it’s really cold, especially the ones with the shorter hair. I kept the paddocks so we can separate them into smaller groups to avoid fighting. Most of them are pretty good, but every once in a while, we have an unexpected issue. We found out the hard way that Bella and Simone can’t be together if Lasso is around, ever since they both had puppies with him.” Tyler waves a hand at the black and white husky that saunters over in front of us to lie down on his back and show his belly. “This is Pope. He’s decided he doesn’t want to be a sled dog anymore. He’ll run until he reaches twenty-four to twenty-six miles, and then he just stops.”