“One of Skip’s dogs developed pneumonia after the race.” It recovered—thank God—but maybe it wouldn’t have had it run those last seventy-seven miles.
Dad raises his hands in surrender. “Wade agrees, and he wants veterinarians like you there to make sure those dogs stay healthy. But there have been complaints—”
“From whom? More than just Skip?”
“One or two folks, saying you favored the Hatchetts. It’s baloney. I know you didn’t. Wade knows you didn’t. But Harry has rubbed some people around here the wrong way, and they’re looking for any way to hit back. You’re his vet.”
“I’m also Jed Carling’s and Darlene Wilcox’s vet.” Though they don’t show up at my clinic demanding I pull strings and pay visits. No one is as big a pain in my ass as the Hatchetts are on the regular, but no one else makes me as much. Their kennel is a busy business, and it pays well to be at Harry’s beck and call, as much as I despise it sometimes.
Dad lifts his hands again. “You asked what I heard, so I’m passing it along. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“Those people can shove their accusations up their asses.”
“Funny, isn’t that what you told Skip to do?” Dad chuckles. “Wade took you on as a rookie, and he’s thrilled to have you back every year. But he’s been doing that job for more than two decades, and it’s getting harder, with the sponsors dropping and all this noise from these activists. He’s not going to be doing it for much longer, and I know you’d be really unhappy if the person who replaces him doesn’t call you back.”
And there are enough veterinarians applying. People come from all over the world to volunteer.
“A lot of people still live for this race.”
“I know, Dad.” Tour companies that charge thousands per person to give tourists “the Iditarod experience,” villages that swell to two and three times their regular population, restaurants that earn a hefty share of their annual revenue in the first two weeks of March … they’d feel the absence of the race not just in their spirit but also their wallets.
“Locals are fed up with these anti-musher folks in their tiny New York and LA condos tellin’ Alaskans how to live. Now, if they start hearing that one of their own is sabotaging and threatening mushers, well … that could hurt you.”
Dad has always been keen on protecting our reputation, even more so as each new veterinarian moves into the valley.
I weave my fingers through Bentley’s mane, the simple effort soothing. “I think that guy’s threats were empty.” I hope they are. “He was just angry with how it all went down.”
“And how high was that horse you rode in on?”
“At least ten feet tall.” I should have treated the dog and brought her here, and then relayed Harry’s claim to the ITC and let them take over. I overstepped boundaries, allowing my anger to cloud my judgment. And if what Tyler told me is true, and he is rescuing—and treating—a wandering old dog that will be of little use to him, then maybe he isn’t so bad after all.
“Did you at least apologize to him?”
I give Dad a look.
“You know, sometimes you have too much of your old man’s pride. I wish you’d taken more after your mother.”
“Mom would have told him off.” Especially if he displayed that smug smile.
“Probably.” He scratches his chin in thought. “But you’ll likely be crossing paths with him at the checkpoint when he rolls in with his team, so maybe you should consider going out there and smoothing the waters. It’s better to be on good terms than the ones you left on.”
He’s right, but it doesn’t settle well with me. “Just the thought of going back out there makes my blood pressure spike.”
Dad gets that twinkle in his eye. “Hey, well, if you have to go to the doctor about that, make sure you bring a red crayon.”
I groan, my voice monotone as I deliver his corny punch line, “So she can draw my blood?”
He chuckles. “I guess I’ve told you that one already, huh?”
* * *
“Suck it up, Marie.” I take a deep, calming breath as my truck comes to a sliding stop at the end of the driveway. The sky is murky with no mountain range in sight. Today’s forecast is calling for upward of eleven inches of snow beginning this afternoon, but already, large flakes float through the air.
I spent the entire night and morning mentally preparing myself to face Tyler Brady again, but the farm gate blocks any hope of passage, a new chain hanging from the post.
“You don’t waste time, do you?” It’s a relief, though, because it means I don’t have to face him in person.
I slide out of the driver’s seat, the handwritten note that took me four attempts held tight in my mitten so as not to blow away with the breeze. It was a “just in case the gate is closed” letter, but also a way of sorting through my thoughts before I said them out loud. I’m not sure if any of those thoughts could be called an apology, exactly. More like a truce, with mention of how healthy his sled dogs looked while running yesterday. Either way, it’s the right thing to do. I’ll feel better after delivering this small olive branch.