Beneath the Ashes

by Sue Henry

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  “She didn’t tell you where she was going?”

  “No—didn’t even tell me she was going, just took off when the fire started this morning—when I really needed her help.”

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  Her irritation at Anne’s desertion surfaced again, and she could hear the edge of resentment in her own voice.

  Greg sighed deeply and looked at the floor. “Did she start it?” he asked, weary apprehension in his voice.

  The question startled Jessie into momentary silence.

  Uneasy, she frowned as she asked the obvious question, “Why would you think so?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he told her. She was aware of his watching closely for a reaction, reaching for her belief and trust.

  Though he seemed sincere, Anne had also exhibited a twisted sort of credibility. Jessie was learning quickly not to take what she heard or saw at face value, even from Phil and Mac. There was always more—and people had their own agendas, positive or not. She listened as he continued to explain, but she did not let down her guard.

  “There’s a warrant for her arrest in Colorado, for burning down the house we were renting before she left two weeks ago. That’s her solution to problems she can’t solve or admit—burn them. I’ve got to find her.

  I’m afraid she’s going to . . . to hurt somebody again, Jessie.”

  “Again?”

  Early the next morning, before anyone could show up with some other bad news to stop her, Jessie was on the trail with a team of nine dogs, three of them young trainees. It was a glorious day. The temperature had risen, snow and ice were melting, and the sun gleamed from every sublimating drift so brightly that it hurt her eyes when a curve in the trail turned the team toward

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  the east. Deep blue shadows defined the slightest unevenness in the trail, and cast long lines from every tree and shrub.

  Crossing an open meadow, she saw a moose stretching its neck to strip twigs from the willows along the bank of a partially frozen creek. It turned its head to watch the team and sled pass, but condescendingly ignored the immediate wild yapping of the young dogs, who struggled against their harnesses, itching to give chase. Tank kept the gang line taut. The more experienced dogs ran on, paying little attention, pulling the young ones along with them until the moose was out of sight. Mind your manners, they seemed to say in re-buke. Don’t bark at neighbors that are none of your business. It made Jessie grin and lightened her mood, which was already one of relief and exhilaration in escaping the problems she had purposely left behind her.

  The night before, as soon as Greg Holman had gone, she had brought Tank into the tent, locked the door again, and settled into her borrowed bed for the night, knowing she needed sleep to refuel her flagging energy and reduce the emotional overload of the last few days.

  The sleep she managed was less than ideal. She was disturbed twice by dreams of fire she was unable to quench, from which she woke wide-eyed and breath-less. The changing temperature and humidity also made for periods of semiwakefulness. Still, she had felt better when she got up, made breakfast for herself and the dogs, and readied her sled for a day on the runners, determined not to disrupt her training schedule any more than it had been already. House, tent, fires, trouble, or not, the dogs needed her attention.

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  Now, as the sled glided along the winding trail, heading steadily northwest, she gave herself plenty of time to simply enjoy being part of the sunny day, knowing she would eventually return to a thoughtful examination of what she had learned from Holman the night before.

  The dogs were running well and smoothly in the

  well-broken track they followed. Knowing the capabil-ities of the experienced dogs in the team, Jessie watched the young ones closely, making sure they were not pushed too fast or asked to do more than they were able. It was important that they learn to work as a team, responding to changing trail conditions as required, following their leader as a single, happy unit.

  But each dog also had its own individual personality, needs, and abilities that Jessie assessed carefully in deciding where to place it in this team and whether it would be good enough to keep or should be sold to other racing enthusiasts. Some, like Smut, would never make good sled dogs; she found homes for them. It was important that all the dogs she kept enjoyed going out in a team, had fun on the trail, and maintained their desire to run and pull.

  She also watched attentively to see which dogs ran well together. Some tended to compete or developed dislikes for each other. These she did not hitch together but paired with a more easygoing partner.

  Some liked to lead, others to follow. Some did well in the front or middle of the team but were uneasy with a sled running directly behind them. Good wheel

  dogs were often as hard to find as leaders, for they must be strong enough to shift the direction of a

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  loaded sled and keep it in line, but not be frightened that it might slide into them. Figuring out their individual aptitudes and idiosyncrasies was demanding, but Jessie enjoyed making these discoveries and helping her mutts learn what they could do and how to do it successfully.

  Well-cared-for dogs run best at temperatures well below freezing that keep them from overheating or becoming dehydrated. This sunny day was pleasant for Jessie, but warmer than she liked for training her team.

  Though her dogs must learn to run in warm or cold conditions, she planned to stop often to give them extra water. She soon unzipped her parka and appreciated the warmth that promised spring, though the sun was still at a fairly low angle this early in the year.

  Snow on south-facing slopes was beginning to melt, water trickling just a little here and there, and the trail was punchy and soft. Over the shush of the runners on the snow, as the trail narrowed between some trees, she could hear the twitter of chickadees. Several skimmed across ahead of the sled, altering direction with quick flicks of their wings. Though more elusive, Jessie often spotted house finches, who also spent the winters in the north. These were as easily identified as the brownish sparrows they resembled, though the males had reddish heads and the females were blush of

  breast. Magpies and comical, camp-robbing jays, both related to ravens, also hung around in the winter. But soon the migrating flocks would arrive: white snow geese returning to their summer habitats, followed by their darker Canadian cousins; swans, cranes, and many smaller birds would soar in to fill the air with

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  their songs and calls, a welcome contrast to the silence of the long winter.

  With the physical exercise of driving the sled,

  pumping with one foot on the uphill sections, sometimes trotting along beside it, Jessie felt her whole body loosen up, begin to stretch and move as it should.

  The stress faded until the only tension she could identify was that of muscles, fit and strong enough to do the job she demanded of them. The breeze created by their motion seemed to sweep away mental cobwebs, mend emotional hurts, and make her problems seem less important and solutions possible. With a new, more positive outlook, she reconsidered last night’s late visitor.

  What Greg had told her had been eerily similar to what Anne had related earlier, but in his version of the last ten years he was not to blame for their troubles—

  she was. The facts, according to Greg, had not really helped Jessie clarify the situation or know what to believe. She did not remember him as dishonest, though he was sometimes biased. The night before in the tent, he seemed sincere, but how was she to tell what was truth and what self-serving? Much of Anne’s account was also now in question.

  According to Greg, he had finally been convinced that Anne had started the fire that killed Cal Mulligan’s two children, though he said she had stubbornly continued to deny it.

 
“I didn’t know anything about it until after I married her. Even then, I didn’t believe it at first, but there was just too much that didn’t fit together any other way.

  Once, when I was in town, a guy named Tatum told me

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  a lot of stuff about the fire that seemed totally absurd and unfair.”

  Jessie nodded. “I know Tatum. He’s investigating fires officially now.”

  Her scornful tone caught Holman’s attention.

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “I don’t like him—or trust him. I don’t know what to believe. Anne said it wasn’t her fault—that he’s obsessed with the idea that she set it—is making up proof. I don’t know why, except that he was burned in that fire and resented having to quit being a fireman and turn to investigating arson.”

  “That’s what I thought, but I talked to other people.

  Some of the things Anne claimed didn’t jibe with what they said. Tatum may have good reason to suspect her.

  When she started setting other fires—especially after she burned our cabin—”

  “She said you did that.”

  “Not a chance. I built that cabin with my own

  hands—cut every log, measured and fit every joint.

  She burned it so we’d have to leave—it was another way for her to run.”

  “What did she have to run from? It was a year later.

  They hadn’t arrested her. Tatum couldn’t prove any of his accusations, could he?”

  “No, but he didn’t give up—just wasn’t around up there. At least we thought he wasn’t, but we might have been wrong. A time or two I thought . . . And there were other, unrelated things.”

  “The baby?” Jessie blurted without thinking.

  He looked at her sharply and grew as still as an animal caught suddenly in the glare of headlights.

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  “What do you know about that?”

  “Not much,” she backpedaled, damned if she’d help him. “Just that she had one.”

  “She told you I killed it, didn’t she?”

  Jessie knew her silence handed him the truth.

  “Well, I didn’t,” he said brusquely, staring at his hands in his lap for a long moment before going on. “I don’t really know if it was stillborn, like she said, or if she . . .

  Look, I came home and she’d had it and buried it somewhere—she wouldn’t tell me where. I couldn’t find it and didn’t have much time to try before she set that fire.”

  He paused and looked up. “I know that she didn’t want it. She hated being pregnant and told me over and over that she wouldn’t take care of it when it was born.

  She refused to see a doctor.”

  “She said you wouldn’t let her go to town.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I stopped her once, early, when she threatened to go and get an abortion. After that she wouldn’t go. I had decided to take her in, like it or not—wasn’t going to have my kid born without someone who knew what they were doing, if anything went wrong. I wanted that baby—it was mine, too.”

  “A-ah . . .” Jessie started, but stopped, not knowing if he was aware that the child hadn’t been his.

  “Yeah, I know now that it wasn’t mine. But, then, I still thought it was—still believed her—so I thought we had lots of time, but it was two months older than I thought. When she couldn’t get out of bed one morning, I made a big mistake—thought something was

  wrong and went down to use the phone at the roadhouse. When I came back it was over and she said it was born too early and . . . dead.”

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  Jessie caught a gleam of moisture on Greg’s face.

  Tears? For what, exactly? To make her believe him?

  Was he capable of that much deception?

  “I wanted to see how it really died. I looked for a long time, but there’s miles of places to hide things up there. Then it snowed that night and I never could find where she’d put it, because right after that she burned the cabin. She wanted to get me away from there before I found it.”

  “She buried it by a big rock, across an open space on the west side of your cabin,” Jessie told him impulsively.

  “How could you know that?”

  “I found her crying over it up there, Greg. She dug up the remains—the bones—and brought them back

  with her in a metal box.”

  He stared at her, astonished. “Why?”

  “She said that . . .”

  Jessie was jerked suddenly from her remembered

  conversation with Greg Holman, as the dogs came over a small rise and started down toward a creek bed. It was narrow, not more than four or five feet wide, and perhaps two feet at its deepest. Though the surface was still frozen, the ice looked thin in the sunshine, and water had welled up to run across it in a generous overflow.

  Tank did not hesitate but led the team directly into the water on the ice, as he had done many times

  through the years and crossed creeks quickly, with no particular difficulty. The young dogs in the team, however, were not so casual. The idea of following his confident lead into the icy water did not appeal to them in

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  the least. All three refused, frantically trying to reverse direction and keep their feet out of the water.

  Young Taffy, paired with Tux, was dragged onto the creek, much against her will, as Tux steadily followed Tank as usual. Jimmy, who was doing better at not jumping lines, was also dragged onto the ice beside experienced Mitts, followed by Pete and young Shorts.

  But the opposing pressure of the reluctant, inexperienced dogs on the gang line had slowed the advance of the whole team. As the sled dropped down the bank and onto the creek, the ice began to fracture. Taffy, trying to climb out on the opposite bank, broke through a thin spot, fell back, breaking more, and immediately four struggling dogs were in the water. She tried again at the bank and made it this time, thanks to the help of her partner, Tux.

  “Hike, Tank,” Jessie called sharply. “Go, guys. Get us out of here.”

  As her leader threw himself against the harness, Tux and even Taffy followed him in pulling hard on the line. Jimmy and Mitts made it up the bank, and Pete and Shorts were all but across, but Darryl One and Darryl Two, in wheel position, were now forced into the cold water in order to reach the other bank. The sled, coming last, slowly sank several inches with the weight of the sled bag, plus Jessie on the rear runners.

  Water spilled into her boots, drenching their felt insulation and her feet in their heavy wool socks. By the time the team had pulled her and the sled up the gently sloping bank, her toes were growing numb.

  Halting the team, she assessed the situation. The sled bag was designed to keep most of the water from

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  getting inside, so her equipment would at most be damp in spots, but had been bagged in plastic for just such a situation. There were, however, eight wet dogs, all shaking themselves vigorously, and one shivering musher, wet to the knees, to be dried out before they could continue.

  “I think,” she told the team in general, as she prepared to get a fire going, “that we need some lessons in crossing partially thawed creeks—but not right now.”

  It was much later before she thought of any problems other than those of training sled dogs.

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  RETURNING HOME LATE THAT

  , J

  AFTERNOON

  ESSIE FOUND

  MacDonald writing a note to leave on the door of her tent. He raised one hand in greeting as he crumpled the note in the other, stuffed it into his pocket, and turned to watch as she pulled the team to a stop near the storage shed.

  The snow in the yard had melted thin in spots, and the sound of the runners on a patch of bare ground made her grimace. There wouldn’t be many sled runs left if it did
n’t snow again. She would soon be driving teams from a four-wheeled ATV instead of a sled.

  This was effective, and many mushers used them to maintain the training of their dogs after the snow was gone. The dogs pulled them as readily as a sled, and they allowed drivers better control over speed and steered more easily than the carts used by some. The sounds of them warned wildlife that something was coming, allowing them to escape to the woods, and their lights were helpful in providing safety along roads that held traffic. Jessie, however, was much 194

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  more fond of the silent gliding of her sled, which blended into the soft natural sounds of the wilderness, and was always glad to have the snow come back in the fall.

  “I’ve got to take care of these guys,” she told Mac, as he walked up to the sled. “Then we can talk. Okay?”

  “Can I help?”

  Together, they took the dogs out of harness; and Jessie walked them two by two to their individual boxes, answering his questions about the design as she fastened them to their tethers. The shell of each box was built separately from its floor, so it could be lifted off to clean the interior and change the straw the dog slept on. The wood floor was a few inches off the frozen ground to keep the animal warm. Each door had a raised sill that the dog must step over, which meant that less snow blew or was tracked in.

  “Cozy,” MacDonald commented. “I guess I never

  thought much about doghouses—just figured they

  should have the traditional peaked roof and an opening in front with ‘Spot’ painted over it, like in cartoons.

  I’ve never had a dog.”

  “Maybe it’s time you did,” Jessie teased. “Alaskan huskies are great pets. They’re generally very bright and affectionate.”

  She gave him the key to the new lock on the storage shed. She carried it with her now to make sure it didn’t fall into the wrong hands. Jessie had thoroughly searched the shed for anything else that did not belong there, but she had found nothing. He straightened the harnesses and hung them just inside the door as she directed, then helped water all the dogs and watched as

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