Running Wild (Wild 3)

“Good question.” Tyler collects his remaining sausage in his fingers and tosses his plate in the bin on the way to the door. “Thank you for the hot meal. Much appreciated.”

“Oh, you’re so welcome, darlin’.” Karen beams. “Now you go on and get some more rest before you’re off again.”

I watch Tyler’s back until the door shuts behind him, my mind reeling with questions.

“He’s a quiet one, huh?” Gary sips his coffee. “Likes to keep things close to his chest.”

Karen cackles with laughter. “Don’t know, but he’s definitely a handsome one.” She waves her spatula at me. “You two seem friendly. What do you know about our rookie?”

“Not much.” How good his mouth feels against mine. That’s about it, apparently.

“Heard he refused to give any interviews on the opening weekend,” Gary says. “Not a one.”

“He doesn’t like the attention,” I hear myself say, and it feels like a defense.

Karen snorts. “Well, I’m sure his neighbor stepped in to fill more than enough time slots.”

That stirs Gary’s laughter. Everyone has an opinion about Harry, and it’s usually not flattering.

The volunteer standing next to him—a trailblazer named Eric, I think—pipes up. “I think he’s racing his wife’s dogs.”

My teeth are halfway into a bite of sausage when my stomach drops to the plywood floor. “His wife?” He’s married?

Eric winces. “Not anymore. She died. A few years ago, I think? I was reading some old articles online about him. Finnish news. She’s the one who got him into mushing. Her family has a kennel in Finland. They’re big into racing.”

Of course. There must be write-ups on Tyler there, given he won their big race. Why hadn’t I ever looked him up? My father mentioned relatives in Finland, only he thought it was Tyler’s family. But if he married her, then they’ve become his as well.

“Some of those dogs were hers, I think.”

My mind drifts to that badge on his sleeve.

Team Mila.

I’ll bet that’s not a sponsor.

I’ll bet that’s his late wife.

“Do you know how she died?” She had to have been young. Cancer? Car accident?

Eric shakes his head. His frown says, if it was mentioned, he doesn’t remember.

I chew my food without tasting it as I replay that moment this morning with a new understanding. That’s who Tyler was reaching for in his sleep. That’s who he was kissing, professing his love to.

His dead wife.

And then he woke up to a harsh reality.

To me.

My appetite has all but vanished, but I don’t dare toss the rest of my sausage link in the trash in front of Karen. Copying Tyler’s move earlier, I shift for the door, tucking it between my teeth just long enough to pull on my jacket and hat. “Thank you for breakfast.”

“Uh-huh. Lunch is chicken noodle soup and ham sandwiches, and we’ve got moose chili for supper.”

I duck out the door as I’m mentally tallying the nights I’ve had chili so far. It’s been all of them, except for that one night someone made moose stew. The roadkill lottery has been generous this year.

I spot Tyler right away, perched on a stump stool beside the blazing fire, stitching poly rope for his gangline. He looks up to see me but then shifts his attention back to his task—no smile, no beckon. Nothing to suggest he wants to explain himself.

He must realize that he’ll need to. At least to me.

I gather my thoughts as I approach, deciding how to broach … what, exactly? Which topic is less icy to tread on: His status as a widower or dog thief?

“I thought you’d already be asleep.” I settle down on the log next to him. There are eight stools around the fire—hunks of a giant hardwood, hauled in by snowmachine or ATV from a terrain where more grows than these spindly black spruces.

“Soon.”

I watch the flames dance and listen to the fire crackle as I consider that day we met. The more I think about it, I already know the answer. Reed said they’d get in trouble if anyone found that dog on their property. At the time, I assume he meant because she had been neglected, but that wasn’t it.

It’s because someone stole her from Zed Snyder.

Tyler chuckles. “You like to choose your words before you speak, don’t you?”

“I’m not usually one to blurt something out, no. Not unless I’m really upset.”

“And are you? Really upset?” He studies me.

I consider that question. I assume he means about Nymeria and not the whole mistaking-me-for-his-dead-wife bit. He doesn’t know that I know, and it’s not like there has been a reasonable—or expected—place for him to bring her up. “No. I don’t think so.” I pause. “But why?”

“Besides the obvious?”

He hasn’t denied committing the crime.

He peers over his shoulder, scanning our surroundings that brighten with each passing minute ahead of an impending sunrise. Everyone is busy with tasks or huddled in their warm tents, resting. “I was in Wasilla, meeting with some friends in a pub. Zed was there. He sat down to shoot the shit for a while, and I overheard him talkin’ about a dog he was set to retire. The last litter she gave was small, the puppies not looking like good sled dogs. She’d made him a lot of money over the years, but she’d hurt her leg in a fight with another dog recently, and it wasn’t worth spending the money to get it fixed. She was eight. He figured it was time for her to go.”