Running Wild (Wild 3)

If Larry’s not smart enough to make the right call to scratch, Monica had better withdraw him.

In all the commotion, I hear myself ask, “What about the dogs?”

Tyler’s head snaps to me, and he falters, as if shocked to see me there. He shouldn’t be; he knows I volunteer on the trail.

“Did you notice if any of them were hurt?” I didn’t get a good look at them running in.

“One of the wheel dog’s hind legs is bothering her. The one on the left. But otherwise, they’re all fine. I’ve already checked.”

I’ll be the judge of that.

As the others deal with Larry, I head straight for the dog in question, a beautiful blue-eyed husky with deep caramel markings. A quick examination tells me she’s not cut by branches or ice, but she has injured her hind leg. No matter what’s decided, she’s gone as far as she can go in this race.

I shift to the other wheel dog for an inspection, earning a lick against my cheek for the attention. From there, I slowly move through each dog, who seem in fine spirits despite their ordeal.

“An Iditarod rookie, and you’re already playing Good Samaritan,” Terry declares, his booming voice dividing my attention from my task.

Tyler has left Larry to the others and is now tending to his team, handing Terry his dog diary. “I’m just glad I was there to help.” He pushes back the hood of his red musher’s down jacket, revealing a black knit cap that hugs his head and shows off his pleasing side profile.

A visceral reaction—that same instant admiration for a handsome face that sparked when I first met him—stirs in my stomach. It’s quickly quelled by the reminder of his abrasive personality. But he can’t be all bad. If Larry was as far off the marked trail as Tyler claims, he could have claimed to not see him and sped past. Not that I know a single musher—including Skip—who would consider doing something so callous. Still …

“He wouldn’t be the first one. That stretch can be a nightmare. Claimed more than one musher’s hopes over the years.” Terry reviews the notes with an intense frown. “Your dogs sure looked real good coming in, though.”

“As they should. They’re the best team here, and they’ve been training hard.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes at his arrogance.

“They all run in the Finnmark race with you?”

“All of them.” Tyler yanks off his gloves and leans down to massage one of the wheel dog’s front legs.

I note the various badges sewn into his sleeve. A common practice for both mushers and volunteers who don the various emblems to highlight previous races they’ve participated in, clubs they belong to, their kennel, even sponsors. A black-and-white patch that’s larger than the others sits prominently on his shoulder, of a musher’s sled and the words “Team Mila” below it.

“How is she?”

I realize Tyler’s talking to me. Even in the dim night with nothing but the overhead spotlight, I can make out the pretty hazel of his irises.

He must be asking about the injured wheel dog. I find my voice quickly. “Likely a sprain. She’ll heal, but she’s done for this race. The rest of them look okay so far.” I offer a head scratch to the mottled beige husky I’m inspecting.

He shifts his quiet focus back to his own dogs, murmuring softly to each.

The reporter comes around to ask a few questions about Larry’s accident, which will surely front all the Iditarod-related news tomorrow, but Tyler dismisses him after ten seconds, claiming he needs to focus on his dogs.

“You’re a bit of a mystery around here,” Terry says, shifting from dog to dog.

Tyler chuckles. It’s a deep, unexpectedly pleasant sound. “I’m not very interesting, and I’ve never been one for cameras. I like to keep to myself.”

“You’re in the wrong sport, then, champ. Especially in Alaska. Where you from again? Finland?”

“That’s right.” Tyler gives the blond husky a head scratch and then moves on to the next.

“And before that? Somewhere in the lower forty-eight, I’m guessing.”

My ears perk up for his answer, my curiosity overpowering my contempt for the man.

Tyler pauses, as if considering answering. Clearly, Terry has disregarded the keep to myself comment. “Montana, originally. Near Whitefish.”

Terry makes a sound. “Been there! Drove through one summer with the wife, back in ’92, on our way to Yellowstone. Beautiful area.”

“It is. But so is Alaska.” There’s a pause and then Tyler asks, “You ever been, Marie?”

“Huh?” I feel like I’ve been caught eavesdropping.

He smirks, like he was aware I was listening intently. “Whitefish, Montana.”

“No. Never made it that far.” I shift back to Larry’s dogs.

“So Montana to Finland to Alaska. That’s quite the route,” Terry says. “How’d you end up in Finland, racing sled dogs, anyway?”

“It’s just where my path led me.” Tyler crouches in front of a lean black husky. “How is my team?”