Running Wild (Wild 3)

Is it just me, or does he seem eager to get away?

He’s peeling back the zipper when Karen’s reedy voice carries. “You’ve already had your ration, Hopper!”

She must be chasing him out of the hut again. It makes me laugh, despite my disappointment.

Tyler watches the debacle outside unfold. “Any idea what’s for lunch?”

“Soup and a sandwich.”

“That sounds perfect.”

Not as perfect as if Tyler turned around and slid into my sleeping bag for a few hours. “I’ll see you later?”

He falters. “You know where to find me.” With that, he’s gone, shuttering the tent and leaving me alone.

Sleep evades me.

* * *

The cacophony of dogs barking and tugging on their harnesses has the nearby teams howling in protest. They all want to run, but after a full twenty-four-hour rest, Tyler’s dogs are heading toward the trail.

Tyler and my paths danced around each other all afternoon without ever crossing. Or maybe it was my path that weaved in and out, looking for a reasonable opportunity to cut in while he toiled away on his sled, replacing the runners, tightening bolts, taking full inventory and rearranging. I never did find the right time, wanting to respect his space while he prepared to leave.

But now he’s about to take off, across the tundra and along the Bering Sea, and I feel the overwhelming urge to speak to him one more time before he leaves.

“Counting down the minutes?”

“Basically.” He checks his watch, his mood subdued. I guess mine would be, too, if I had days and another four hundred miles ahead of me.

My gaze floats off into the waning sun. There’s a lot of nothing out there. Anywhere from ten to thirteen hours of snow and stunted trees, depending on how fast he travels until he reaches the next checkpoint in Ruby. Hours of just him and his dogs and his drifting thoughts. Some mushers have claimed traversing those flat plains are the most challenging.

Gary is heading this way with a clipboard to take down information to feed into the official race, which means Tyler’s time at this checkpoint has come to an end.

“Good luck, stay safe, and call me when you’re back in town. We can grab a coffee or dinner or something.” It’s as overt an invitation as I can collect the nerve to offer.

“Yeah …” The smile I get back is not the playful smirk I was growing used to. It’s sad and full of resignation. “I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot. Again. This was fun, Marie, and you’re an incredible woman, but I don’t want to make it more than it is.”

An uncomfortable, cold feeling washes over me.

Tyler searches the expanse of wilderness. “I can’t get into it because I’m about to go out there with my dogs, and my head has to be one hundred percent focused on them, but the truth is, I was married once and now I’m widowed, and my life is the way I want it. Uncomplicated.”

I force a wide smile. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” How else do I respond, after that shutdown?

What the hell happened?

“I won’t change my mind. Not about this.” His intense eyes lock on mine. “But friends, I can do. I’d really like to do. I think you’re pretty cool.”

“Friends. Great.”

Friends.

Great.

He tugs on his fur-lined mittens. “Come by the kennel sometime. I’ll give you that tour I didn’t want to give you before.”

I can’t tell if he’s serious or if it’s a vacant offer—I don’t have his number to call ahead so he’ll unlock the gate—but I nod, anyway.

“Ready.” The sled jerks with the dogs’ wild jumps at that softly spoken command.

Gary saunters over. “Okay, musher number ten, looks like you’re off?”

“I am.”

Gary scribbles down the time.

Tyler’s jaw is set with determination as he releases the snow hook. His sled speeds away with a round of cheers from the volunteers. He throws an arm up to wave but doesn’t look back.

CHAPTER TEN

A deep rumble sounds in Bentley’s chest, his rapt attention on my laptop monitor as fourteen dogs run toward the Burled Arch, their path lined with cheering fans and bright spotlights to cast out the darkness.

“You remember that, huh?” I stroke the husky’s fur with my fingers, comforted by his warmth next to me as we watch the livestream of the Iditarod from my bed. “I’ll bet you miss it.” It’s been five years since Bentley was retired from his racing team, and while the dog never crossed that finish line in first place, he completed the grueling journey to Nome enough times to be considered a world-class canine athlete by many in the mushing community.

It feels good to be home, and yet the sudden and complete silence after so many days of people and planes and hoopla is at the same time disconcerting.