Running Wild (Wild 3)

“Gary Seymore. Yeah.”

“He called, wanting to know if I’d consider leasing some dogs so he could build a team to race the Iditarod himself. The guy couldn’t operate a damn coffee maker. As if I’d ever trust him with any of my dogs, if I had any to spare. I wouldn’t even loan him Pope for a five-mile Sunday tour.”

The mushers’ names are ringing alarms in my head. They’re the same people Harry mentioned a few weeks ago when he was complaining about interested people ghosting his calls.

I’m beginning to see where they’ve gone.

Right next door, as Harry has feared all along.

“For these puppies”—I point to Nala—“you’re either training them to race or selling them to someone who will. They need to run. It’s in their blood.” No matter what reservations I have about the bad apples in the industry, I’ve seen these mushing dogs leaping with wild excitement the second someone holds up a line, and howl with dramatic protest that only a husky can deliver when they realize they’re not going out that day.

“You’re right. I know you’re right. And my wife would want to know that her dogs are still out there running.” A wistful look touches Tyler’s face, and I can tell he’s drifted somewhere else.

Somewhere far away from me, to another life where he was someone’s husband and almost a father. I’m beginning to think Tyler spends a lot of time lingering with the dead. What must that do to a person?

“You bring the dogs into the barn on the very cold nights?” I ask, pulling him back to the land of the living.

He clears his throat. “Yeah, if it’s really cold, especially the ones with the shorter hair. I kept the paddocks so we can separate them into smaller groups to avoid fighting. Most of them are pretty good, but every once in a while, we have an unexpected issue. We found out the hard way that Bella and Simone can’t be together if Lasso is around, ever since they both had puppies with him.” Tyler waves a hand at the black and white husky that saunters over in front of us to lie down on his back and show his belly. “This is Pope. He’s decided he doesn’t want to be a sled dog anymore. He’ll run until he reaches twenty-four to twenty-six miles, and then he just stops.”

“That’s precise.” And listening to Tyler speak so casually about his dogs, as if they’re his children, makes me smile whether I want to or not.

“Every time. Shitty-ass sled dog, but the friendliest guy around. He’s three and basically retired now. He and Sleet don’t get along.”

“Sleet’s the swing dog under the tree?”

“Yeah. And he doesn’t like lazy sled dogs, which Pope is. This one’s good for chasing rabbits, eating more than his share, begging for belly scratches, and not much else.” Tyler leans down to smooth his hand over Pope’s thick midsection before pulling himself back up. “So, there’s your full tour of my kennel.” He folds his arms over his chest. “Anything you want me to change as the veterinarian on my payroll?” The tiny smirk tells me he knows I won’t find one thing wrong.

“Actually, yes. The heat lamp you have set up in the treatment and birthing room, put it in the corner farthest from the door.” It’s a good idea, but it’s also not critical, and yet I feel the need to poke holes in both Tyler’s setup and his ego.

Tyler’s lips twist, and I think he’s going to question my demand. “Consider it done.”

“Also, some sort of video feed, especially once you have puppies out here. And I want access to your full database.” I’ve never had anything like that beyond the information that we collect at the clinic. Secretly, I’m a data nerd.

“I’ll have a camera up by the end of the week, and I’ll have you added to the database by the end of the day. So, does this mean you’ll take me? I mean, my dogs?” he corrects, and a hint of color touches his cheeks that sparks my curiosity.

I set my jaw. “On one condition—that we keep this between us for now. I don’t want whatever issues you and Harry have with each other to impact my clinic in any way.” It’s inevitable that the Hatchetts will find out soon enough, but the longer I can avoid Harry’s resulting fit, the better.

He chuckles. “That’s fine. I don’t talk to that asshole, anyway.”

“Okay, then.” I check my watch. It’s almost nine. I could easily spend the day here. “I should get going. Cory will send you an invoice for my time today,” I say, already moving for my truck. “You can either e-transfer the payment or come in to pay within forty-eight hours. She’ll include our regular operating hours in the email.”