Rebecca closed her burning eyes. A short nap. She needed a nap. Just a short one…but this nagging thought kept surfacing—where was Mac?
MAC WAS LOST. He’d taken a wrong turn somewhere and hadn’t seen a trail marker in more than thirty minutes, which was about twenty minutes too long. The trail he was following had steadily narrowed and worsened. He stopped his team and walked ahead of it, scanning the path with his headlamp, searching for some sign that other teams had passed this way. But there was nothing to indicate the presence of another team. No paw prints, no parallel tracks of sled runners. Only a snow-machine trail that probably led to some trapper’s shack. Mac rubbed his mittened hand over the bridge of his nose to warm it. No telling where he’d gone wrong. He’d just have to turn the team around and hope that Merlin would pick up the correct trail.
His confidence in his lead dog was badly shaken. Merlin had failed to keep them on track. Mac was gruff when he gave the “come haw!” command, and he made sure before he did that there was nothing the sled could get hung up on. The team trotted past at a reasonable speed, and he maneuvered the sled into the right direction before the dogs took up the slack in the gang line.
Mac had lost thirty minutes at least and would have to push to make up that time. His team was tiring. They had stopped loping two hours ago, and when he turned them around their speed diminished to what he figured had to be a plodding ten-mile-an-hour trot. He checked the watch his brother had lent him and swore softly. To keep to his game plan he’d have to stop and feed his dogs in less than half an hour. What if they hadn’t made it back onto the race trail by then?
Anxiety took hold as he peered through the dark, searching for the intersection. If Merlin reached it and swung the team the wrong way, they’d be on their way back to Whitehorse, not a pleasant thought. He leaned over the driver’s bow and finally he saw the junction. He slowed the team as they approached it. Which way should they turn? He thought frantically about what the crew had said about markers. When approaching a turn, there would be a reflective marker on the side of the trail in which the turn should be made. If no turn was to be made, there would be reflectors beyond the side trail, signaling to the musher that he or she was on track.
Mac stopped the team just shy of the intersection and once again walked to the front. He walked far enough ahead to see the other trail, and he scrutinized it carefully. He saw pawprints, lots of them, all pointing to his right. When he panned his light along the right fork, he saw reflective material nailed to a tree some fifty or sixty feet distant. Relief flooded through him. He turned to retrace his steps to the sled, but he hadn’t figured on his team being so anxious to follow him. Merlin had generated enough get-up-and-go attitude that the team had pulled the hook loose and was already bounding toward him. He held out his arms in a futile gesture. “Whoa! Merlin, Whoa!”
If he had thought his command would slow or stop the dogs, he should have known better. He had learned some time ago that dogs had selective hearing. If they heard a command and wanted to obey it, they did. If they didn’t want to obey, they simply didn’t hear the order. “Dogs don’t make mistakes,” Rebecca had told him on more than one occasion. “Mushers make mistakes.”
No time to dwell on his mistake—neglecting to snub his team to a tree. He leaped out of the path of his charging huskies and hurled himself across his sled as it blurred past, holding on for dear life.
“Gee, Merlin,” he shouted while he was still upside down and facing backward, knowing that Merlin must have already reached the intersection. Merlin geed. The team followed. The sled, by some unfathomable piece of luck, didn’t tip over. Mac regained the runners, thoroughly shaken and wildly relieved. He let out a whoop of exhilaration. They were back on the trail, and he hadn’t lost his team! “Good dogs!” he praised as they loped along. Shortly after, Merlin put on the brakes so hard that the rest of team accordioned into a ball of fourteen dogs all trying to stand in the same spot. “Hey!” Mac shouted angrily, jamming on the sled brake. “Get up! Merlin, get up! Go ahead! All right! Goddammit! Go ahead!”
Instead, Merlin veered off the trail, uncoiling the team but leading it into deep, unpacked snow. The stubborn husky forged along until he came to a second stop, and just as Mac was getting ready to jump off the sled and give his leader a verbal thrashing, a headlamp flashed on in front of Merlin and slowly panned his team, eventually coming to rest on him.
“Merlin?” a very familiar voice said. “Mac, is that you?”
“Rebecca?” Hope surged wildly through him.
“I thought you were ahead of me!” Her voice was surprised and sleepy.
“I got lost.” He grinned foolishly as he snubbed his sled to the nearest tree. He walked up the length of his team and when he got to Merlin, he knelt down and put his arms around the dog’s neck. “Sorry, old man. You’re a good dog,” he murmured quietly into Merlin’s ear. “You’re the greatest dog in the whole wide world! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
MAC FED AND CARED FOR his team, and when he had finished, he walked toward Merlin on the pretense of checking the dog out, but what he was really doing was seeing if Rebecca was asleep. Her headlamp was off and she was lying on her sled. Her eyes were closed, but the minute he knelt down beside Merlin, she said—without opening her eyes—“Did you have a nice run?”
“Sure. You?”
“Yes.” She opened her eyes. “Have you eaten yet?”
“No, not yet.”
She sat up and swung her legs over the side of her sled. “I have some tea if you’d like a cup.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your rest.”
She switched on her headlamp and reached her thermos out of her sled bag. “I wasn’t really sleeping,” she said. “I’m just semi-comatose.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Not more than an hour. I plan to stay until midnight and then move along.”
“I might follow you,” Mac said. “Even though my dogs are tired, I don’t think they’re going to rest very well yet. They’re still pretty wired from the race start.”
“It’ll take them a couple of days to settle in,” Rebecca agreed, uncapping her thermos and pouring him a cup of hot, strong tea. “My dogs are so used to taking clients on camp-outs that they’re a pretty mellow bunch. Whenever I stop, they curl up and sleep.”
They both switched off their headlamps. Mac sat on the edge of Rebecca’s sled, up near the nose, and sipped the delicious tea. He reached into his pocket for a handful of gorp and stuffed it into his mouth. Not even eight hours into the race and he was already sick of the high-energy snack. From another pocket he pulled out a stick of greasy smoked salmon. “I’d kill for a pizza,” he said.
“What kind?” Rebecca murmured.
“Huge,” he rhapsodized, “loaded with everything but anchovies.”
“Mushrooms?”
“I can tell by the tone of your voice that I should omit them. Fine by me, I can live without ’em. I’ll call it in. Domino’s delivers!”
She laughed softly, and Mac thought her laughter a warm, lovely sound in the cold darkness. They heard another noise, and moments later a dog team was running by. It was musher number eight. He was singing a ballad to his dogs in a fine, strong baritone, and when he spotted them in the beam of his headlamp, he waved one mittened hand to them cheerfully. His team passed quickly, and soon the dark became quiet again.
“Tell me about your tours,” Mac prompted. “You’ve had a busy winter. Ellin says it’s the best one yet for you.”
“I’ve taken out eight groups since November. It’s been busy.”
“Must be tough on you, doing it by yourself.” Mac ripped off another piece of smoked salmon with his teeth and forced it down. “I’m sure you’re perfectly capable,” he added hastily. “But the logistics of it…”
“Where did you learn to fix airplanes?” Rebecca asked.
Mac took a swallow of tea. “My uncle. He used to work for United, and then he fou
nd a job at a little airstrip near where we lived at the time. I spent every spare moment tagging along behind him, soaking it all up. He was so good at what he did that folks would fly their planes in from hundreds of miles away. My uncle was a great guy. Never married. Shy as hell. Three words in a row was a long sentence for him.” Mac drained his cup. “I must have driven him crazy, but he never let on, just fed me sticks of Big Red gum and peanut-butter sandwiches and let me think I was being a help to him.”
“He sounds nice,” Rebecca said. “But somehow I thought you learned all that airplane stuff in the military.”
Mac gave an abrupt laugh. “Hell, no,” he said. “The only thing I learned in the military is how to land on my feet running.”
Ah, Rebecca thought. A paratrooper, not a mechanic.
Mac pulled a handful of jerked moose meat from another pocket and chewed away. “You suppose there’s a good pizza joint in Carmacks?” he asked hopefully.
Rebecca racked her memory. Two years ago she’d driven to all of the accessible checkpoints to monitor Bruce’s progress. Pizza in Carmacks? Her brow furrowed.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “It’s a small town. You may have to wait for Dawson.”
“I don’t know if I can survive that long.”
“You don’t have much choice. Would you like a peanut-butter sandwich?”
“Thanks, but no thanks. Could I offer you some moose jerky, smoked salmon, gorp?”
“Ugh,” she said.
“You’ll change your tune when you get hungry enough.”
“So will you.” She yawned.
“Fruitcake?”
“Pardon?”
“Would you care for a piece of fruitcake? Remember? You gave it to me this morning. Ellin made it and no doubt it’s damn good, even though I’m not a fruitcake fan.”
“Save the cake for later. Try to get some sleep.”
“I’m not sleepy. It’s only nine o’clock.”
“Try. Come 4 a.m. you’ll wish you had.”
Mac stood up, taking the hint. “Thanks for the tea,” he said.
“Welcome.”
“See you in a few hours.”
“Right.” She heard him walk back down the long length of his team and arrange his sled bag before sprawling on top of it. She heard one of his dogs whine restlessly, and she heard his deep, resonant voice calming it. She lay back and looked up at the dark sky. No stars. Overcast. Could snow before morning. Might snow before midnight. Hard to tell. She closed her eyes. Tried to relax. Wiggled her toes to warm them. Tucked her mittened hands beneath her armpits. Tried to think about her race strategy, but could think of only one thing, one thing in the entire universe.
Mac.
HE DIDN’T SLEEP. How could he when Rebecca Reed lay scarcely seventy feet from him? He closed his eyes and willed himself to relax and found himself listening intently to the huge silence of the Yukon night and remembering the night the two of them had been cocooned inside his sleeping bag…
Remembering Ellin grasping his wrist two days ago with her strong fingers and saying, “Look out for her, Mac! She’s very dear to us.”
Remembering Rebecca handing him that fruitcake just before the start when he was so damn nervous he wasn’t sure if he was going to puke or pass out. Her mere presence had settled him.
Was she sleeping? Would she hear him if he was to sneak a piece of that cake now? He was still hungry. Ravenous, in fact. In lieu of a pizza, perhaps a chunk of fruitcake would do the trick.
Mac slid one mittened hand into his sled bag. The sound he made seemed loud to him, but only because the night was so still. If she was sleeping, she wouldn’t hear. Couldn’t, separated from him by seventy feet and fourteen sleeping huskies. Hah! His fingers closed clumsily around the firm object of his quest. In his hands now. Wrapped in a plastic bag, wrapped in foil. He pulled his mitts off to get at the cake. The cold wasn’t too bad. Dry cold, he thought wryly as he fumbled with the brittle plastic, was like dry heat. Wasn’t really cold. Wasn’t really hot.
Yeah, right.
He had the plastic off, was working on the foil. The cake was certainly a lumpy thing. His fingers touched something that came apart from the package. Something wrapped separately in paper. Curious, he switched on his headlamp, keeping his head bent to avoid casting light ahead and disturbing Rebecca. Brown wrapping paper. Tape. He stared at it for a moment, wondering why it was inside the fruitcake packaging. He frowned, moved his stiffening fingers to break open the paper. For a long moment, long enough for his hands to become completely numb, he sat and stared at the object he held in his hands.
His Rolex watch. Still ticking.
A note had been wrapped around it. He unfolded it. Read it. Brief, terse and to the point. Totally Rebecca. “If you want to keep to your race schedule, you’ll need a good watch. Hope this one is good enough. R.”
He closed his hand around the watch and raised his head, inadvertently sweeping his headlight beam across her sled. She lay still, asleep. He lowered his head abruptly, switched off his lamp and sat in silence, his heart beating a strange cadence. Then he swung his legs over the side of his sled with a moan of frustration. She’d spent her hard-earned money to buy the watch back. Anger warmed his blood, warmed his fingers. Shame and humiliation left a bitter taste in his mouth. How was he ever going to repay her?
Merlin whined and Mac lifted his head. Several of his dogs were on their feet, looking around in the darkness, wondering why they were stopped for so long when the night was perfect for running.
Why, indeed? His dogs weren’t resting and neither was he. If he cut this break short, he’d make Braeburn in an hour at most and then be headed for Carmacks. He could give them a real break in another six hours, and by then they’d be ready for it. If this was a young team, he might not make such a rash move, but these dogs were tough and experienced. And they sure weren’t going to win any race money standing around and waiting for him to get his act together.
Mac put the watch around his wrist and pulled his parka cuff over it. He stood quietly, stuffing the fruitcake back into his sled bag. Instantly all his dogs were on their feet and a ripple of excitement ran through them, as if they were saying, “Hey, the boss is finally up! Let’s get going!” Mac began the tedious task of booting. Four booties per dog, fourteen dogs. It took him thirty minutes to finish the job. He snapped the tug lines back into the dogs harnesses, and they were all dressed up and ready to go.
Rebecca, of course, had awoken. She was sitting up, watching him work. “Hey,” she said. “What about your schedule?”
“My dogs aren’t resting and neither am I,” Mac replied curtly, angry with her for some reason he couldn’t explain, and even angrier with himself. “We’re heading for Braeburn.”
“Oh,” she said, small-voiced. “Okay.”
He stomped back to his sled and stepped onto the runners, reaching for the snub line’s safety knot. She was still watching him. “Well,” he said loudly over the din of his team, “if you hurry up, you could come along!”
She shook her head. “I’m keeping to my schedule. I’ll leave at midnight.”
“Suit yourself.” Mac pulled the knot and released the sled. “Haw over, Merlin!” he snapped, then, “On by!” as his leader veered around Rebecca’s sled and lead the team back onto the packed trail. “See you in Carmacks, maybe,” he said as he passed her, and he thought he saw her nod.
For a long time after that he was grumpier than a hungry grizzly in spring, and he couldn’t for the life of him explain why.
REBECCA WATCHED until the light of Mac’s headlamp faded from view, and then she stood in the darkness, adrift with uncertainty. She checked her watch. The luminous dials read 10 p.m. Her team had been resting for four hours. They were all on their feet now. Mac’s departure had stirred them back to life. They were stretching and yawning and wagging their tails. She checked her watch again and it was still 10 p.m., two hours shy of her departure time. Her team looked good. Well re
sted and alert. Ready to go.
Mac was gone. He had pulled foot and left her behind, and every moment that passed widened the gap between them.
To hell with her schedule!
It took her thirty minutes to snack her dogs with more of the premixed soup, bootie them and get back onto the race trail. They jumped into an easy lope, one they would maintain for an hour or so before settling into their brisk trot. She might not like these night runs, but her dogs definitely did. They ran faster at night, for longer distances and with less fatigue. No stars tonight. No northern lights. No moon.
Just the tracks of Mac’s team on the trail ahead, leading them toward Braeburn. “Catch Mac,” Rebecca whispered silently to her lead dogs, willing them to set a faster pace. “Catch Mac!”
BRAEBURN LODGE wasn’t a designated race checkpoint, but mushers were allowed to drop any injured, sick or tired dogs there, if necessary. This early into the race very few mushers opted to do so, and not many spent much time there. Rebecca was in and out of Braeburn in less than fifteen minutes, doing nothing more than signing in, filling one of her coolers with water and signing out. Mac was ten minutes ahead of her and she had no intention of letting him get away.
She checked her watch—11:30 p.m. To get back on schedule she’d need to stop and feed her team at 5:30 a.m., giving them a six-hour layover. She had no idea what Mac’s routine would be or why he’d become suddenly so abrupt. Low blood sugar? Lack of sleep?
By midnight Cookie and Raven had closed the gap. She could see another musher’s headlamp bobbing up ahead, flickering off trees, team dogs and snowy trail. It had to be Mac. And it was. When he spotted the beam of her headlamp, he swung around on his sled runners. “Took you long enough to catch up,” he said gruffly.
“What do you mean? I waited until midnight, just like I planned,” she replied, and he laughed in a way that made the heat come into her face. “My dogs weren’t resting either,” she said in her defense.
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