Once mushers clear the mountain range and begin taking their required twenty-four rest stops at a checkpoint of their choosing, the stretch between the first and the last racer at a checkpoint expands. I expect to have teams in Cripple spreading over three days.
The volunteers tasked to record entrance times prepare, and the round of cheers and applause collect in the deep, silent valley between the looming peaks, the checkpoint marked with battery-operated lights, fires for warmth, and a banner to welcome them.
“It’s Skip!” someone declares, at the same time I make out his round face.
Tension stirs inside me. I shift my focus to the dogs charging in, watching their gait. He still has all fourteen, and I don’t see lameness in any.
With a deep breath, I step forward.
“Boyd? Why don’t you take this one?” Terry declares, jerking his head toward Skip. “Marie, get the next.” His blue eyes say nothing and everything as they meet mine. I’m no fool. Wade told him to run interference. I’m fine with that, as long as whoever’s checking Skip’s dogs is doing their job.
Boyd marches for the sled team, tugging his trapper hat low on his head. They’ve parked in the short-term area, meaning Skip plans on leaving shortly.
Thank God.
I wait patiently for the next musher, ignoring the trickle of reporters snapping pictures of Rohn’s first arrival.
Two minutes later, Harry slides in.
I smile at the dogs, their tongues lolling, as volunteers descend on the team. I know each one by name, and have treated all of them from birth. There’s an unmistakable wave of relief as I count fourteen, all strong on their legs without a hint of stiffness or struggle.
“Glad to see a friendly face, Doc!” Even bundled in layers and furs, Harry’s cheeks are rosy, windburned.
“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter declares in mock upset, his clipboard out to mark down Harry’s exact time in. “We’re all friendly faces around here.”
Harry grins. “Fine. A pretty face.”
“Can’t argue there.” Peter gives his straggly, snow-coated beard a stroke.
I ignore the flirtation—Harry’s made comments like that in the past, but it’s all for show and empty of meaning. I’m about fifteen years too old based on the girls I see him around town with. I trail him as he directs the dogs to another short-stay lane, securing the sled with his snow hook.
By the time I’ve reached him, the photographer has snapped their shot and I can do my job. “All good out there?”
“It’s been better, but it’s been worse, too. A lot of icy spots.” He hops off his sled and digs out his dog team diary to hand to me. “They built those bridges narrow this year. I thought I was gonna slide off one, for sure.” He drops to his knees and strokes Bowser’s and Sheeba’s napes. “These two kept that from happening.”
“Any concerns?” I quickly scan the notes from the veterinarians at the previous stops.
“Nope.” Harry punctuates that with a head shake. “They’re running like a well-oiled machine.”
“Good.” And, unlike Skip, I know Harry will be watching his team intently. I’ve had to put down dogs for him before. He’s held their head and cried every time. For all Harry’s faults and ways in which he annoys me, I will be the first to defend his love for his dogs.
I nod toward the safety cabin. “Keenan’s got a pot of his moose chili on the stove.”
“Nah. Wanna put some more distance between me and the others.” His gaze flitters toward Skip before he looks over his shoulder, down the trail. “Saw someone not too far back but couldn’t tell who it was. Hopefully not that asshole Brady.”
Harry was not happy when he called for an update on Nymeria and I explained the situation. He was clearly pinning his hopes on a different outcome. “You really that worried about a rookie?”
“No,” he scoffs. “This is my fifth time running this race. I’m gonna win this year, you watch.” He pulls a pack of frozen salmon from his sled and doles out a snack to each dog. “I don’t get why everyone’s making such a big deal about him, anyway. His dogs are nothin’ special. I’ll bet he’s getting a rude awakening about what Alaska’s really like, after coming here and thinking he’s hot shit.”
He’s not the only one who thinks he’s hot shit. Harry’s used to having more than his share of the spotlight—being a Hatchett, being so young. He doesn’t like that there’s someone else who might be getting more attention. “Forget about your neighbor and take care of your dogs.”
“I always take care of them.” He rubs Comet’s hind leg, the one that has caused her issues in the past. “You got my back for the Leonhard Seppala, right?”
I stumble on a suitable response. It’s the most prestigious award, next to winning the race. What is he asking me to do?