Running Wild (Wild 3)

“Damn.” There’s no missing the admiration in the single word as Howie watches the dogs. “Is that Tyler?”

Reed’s head bobs.

“Okay, then. We’ll just wait here until he gets home, and then we’ll have ourselves a little chat.” Howie rubs his gloves together, his gaze darting to mine, his eyebrow arching in a let me do the talking way.

They round the bend and the clearing. A male voice shouts something and then the snowmachine speeds up. Suddenly, it’s racing toward us, the dogs chasing after, never breaking formation.

I straighten my back and ignore the urge to huddle within my heavy coat as the man pulls up and cuts the engine. His face is hidden behind a black balaclava and goggles. No helmet. There’s no law requiring one in Alaska, but it tells me that on top of everything else, this guy has no common sense.

He throws a leg over the seat and climbs off his snowmachine. Meanwhile, Reed drops to his knees, calling the dogs to him by name with an ease he didn’t have for us. They rush straight for his open arms, tongues lolling from their panting mouths.

Tyler Brady has beautiful sled dogs, I’ll admit. Not the fluffy purebred Disney dogs that are great for tourism photo ops and leisure mushing. These are the typical leaner version of huskies that uneducated people mistake for underfed when they’re consuming upward of ten thousand calories a day during training. I can already see that malnourishment is not the case here, the dogs’ winter coats thick and full, and marked in every shade of black, brown, and gray. There are a couple unusual ones in the mix, too—one has a curled tail and a wolflike appearance, its fur a mottled mix of silver and ash. A Siberian Laika, possibly.

While doing a visual inspection from twenty feet away doesn’t tell me much, I can see healthy white teeth and pink gums, no limps, and no ghastly wounds like the ones on Nymeria.

But these are his racing dogs, I remember. He might treat them differently from the ones who won’t take him across the finish line.

“Tyler Brady?” Howie asks.

“And you are …” The muffled question—a demand, really—is delivered with a brusque and slightly Midwestern twang. Montana or Wyoming. Certainly not Scandinavia.

“Howie Fulford. I’m an animal care officer for the borough.”

Tyler’s head swivels toward me, and though I can’t see his eyes through the iridescent shield, I feel them weighing on me.

I clear my throat. “I’m Marie Lehr, a local veterinarian who sometimes helps out Howie.”

“Helps out with what, exactly?” Tyler adjusts his stance and folds his arms across his chest. He’s made no effort to remove his gear yet, and it’s intimidating to face a masked man. “Cutting chains and trespassing on private property?”

Howie clears his throat. He also senses the tension radiating from this man. A man who stands a few inches over six feet, with a lean but sturdy frame. I’d hazard an athlete’s body hides beneath that one-piece suit. Someone who can compete in—and win—a thousand-mile race.

But Tyler doesn’t have the upper hand here, I remind myself. “Someone brought a female husky into my clinic this morning. They thought she might belong to you. Your—” I look to the young man scratching the head of one of the dogs. Is Reed his hired help? His son? Not likely, given he’s only called him Tyler, but I have no idea if Tyler is old enough to have a son this age. He’s still hidden from head to toe. “Reed confirmed that you’re missing a husky.”

“We are,” he says slowly, evenly.

“Is she yours?” Howie pipes in. “One blue eye, one brown? Blonde fur.”

Tyler is quiet for a moment, as if sizing him up. “Based on your description, sounds like her.”

Two of the other dogs have grown curious and now approach us cautiously, their heads bowed as they sniff the air. They have little red booties on to protect their feet during their run.

Howie gives one of them—a black elkhound—a hand to sniff. “Okay, well, we have some concerns for her welfare that I’d like to discuss with you.”

I brace myself for Tyler’s claims that she’s fine, well cared for. For us to mind our own goddamn business and get off his property.

He reaches up to tug off his goggles and balaclava, revealing a stony expression.

Despite my anger, my breath hitches. If I didn’t want this guy arrested and thrown in jail—and fined so severely that his bank accounts are empty for the next ten years after he gets out—I would consider him attractive. He must be around my age—midthirties—with a full head of dark ash-brown hair and a few days of scruff coating a face cut in sharp angles.

He turns to Reed. “You okay? They didn’t give you a hard time?”

“Yes. I mean, no, they weren’t too bad,” he stumbles over his words.