Running Wild (Wild 3)

Hopper reaches for another helping of pancakes.

“That’ll be your fifth and final one,” Karen announces with a warning stare.

The race judge drops his jaw in mock shock. “Who decides on these portions?”

“My wrists do! And my balance!” She looks pointedly down at the wooden crate she’s standing on. More than one person has offered to saw inches off the legs to lower the counter-height table, but she insists this height is best for the masses. “I’ve got twenty volunteers to feed, plus all the press coming through, plus hungry mushers who could use a warm meal.”

The sixty-one-year-old grandmother of three runs a kitchen in a greasy diner in Fairbanks. I’m sure she’s used to having four skillets and countless spatulas going at once. Maybe not while standing on a box.

“Fair enough, but look at me!” Hopper gestures at his tall, beefy frame. He stands at well over six feet and looks like he hasn’t missed a meal in his entire life plus a few extras on the regular. “Five pancakes won’t get me through the morning!”

“And that’s why you also get a sausage.” She taps the pan that holds the lean red reindeer meat links before slipping her spatula under another pancake. “Marie, dear, grab yourself some food while it’s hot. You barely ate last night.”

I help myself and shift into a free spot, balancing my plate on one palm while I press my fork through the fried batter to try to cut it. “Does anyone have an update on Sam’s flight here?” With the steady stream of mushers and their teams coming through beginning this afternoon, some staying to give their dogs a rest, other’s plowing through in minutes, the more veterinarians for the task, the better.

“Not yet, but they’ll get her here in time, don’t you worry. It’s supposed to be a sunny day.”

I sense Hopper looming beside me. I look up to find him staring at my plate.

“You gonna eat all those?” he asks, earning my laugh. It’s all in good fun, and yet Karen hops off her wooden crate and chases him away with her spatula and “Get outta here!” like he’s a stray dog.

He scuttles out the door, snatching his winter coat on the way.

My breath catches as Tyler passes him on the way in. He gets more attractive every time I see him.

“The man with the gold has come for breakfast!” Karen exclaims in the same singsong tone she used for me.

“I heard there was a hot meal in here.” Pretty eyes drift over faces, stalling a few extra beats on mine.

I feel a stupid grin forming, so I shovel in a forkful of pancakes to quell it. Only it’s too much food, and I’m left struggling, pretending that my mouth isn’t full. This can’t be an attractive look.

“Hungry?” Karen asks, already loading up a plate.

“Not as hungry as Marie, from the looks of it.” Tyler’s smile is sly as he shucks his coat and hangs it.

I focus on chewing and marveling at the way Tyler moves, remembering what’s under that thick wool sweater and ski pants.

“Ration’s five pancakes and a sausage link. Two for you, because you need your strength.” Karen winks as she hands him his plate. “Just don’t tell Hopper.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” He sidles in beside me, though there’s more space on the other side. “Good?”

I moan in answer, unable to manage a coherent word.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he murmurs, digging in.

“You’ve surprised a lot of people, rookie.” Gary shuffles over to pour himself more coffee. “You’re a real contender now.”

“As opposed to before?” There’s a hint of arrogance in Tyler’s tone, but in this case, it seems warranted. He did win the Finnmark race.

“Alaska’s its own beast, as I’m sure you’ve already learned. Hope you got a few hours of decent sleep last night.”

“Started out rough, but I definitely didn’t want to leave my bed when I woke up.”

I keep chewing, hoping my flushed cheeks aren’t too obvious.

“Yeah, I’ll bet a warm tent is better than a bale of straw out in the snow.” Gary sets the empty pot back on the machine.

“You empty it, you brew it!” Karen chirps, not even turning from her griddle.

“Jeez, you got eyes on the back of your head, woman?”

She responds with a raucous cackle. “Sure do. And that thing takes twenty minutes, so you better get started.”

Gary smooths fingers over his graying mustache while he studies the machine, a perplexed frown on his face as he lifts a flap and tests a few buttons. “This is different from mine.”

“Here. I got it.” Tyler shifts past me, his hand brushing my thigh in the process—whether by accident or intentionally, I can’t tell—and sets his plate down to free his hands.

Another plus for Tyler: Doesn’t balk at stepping in where needed, even for something as trivial as making coffee. My brother-in-law Jim would not have budged.