by K. A. Tucker
Dad collects a toothpick and leans back in his chair, readying to hear my tale. By the time I’m done recounting Harry’s visit and everything that followed, including the accusations Tyler made about my motivations, Dad’s expression has soured. “Sounds like a real son of a—”
“Dad.” Liz gives a pointed look toward the girls, but their focus is riveted on the heaping brownie sundaes in front of them.
He offers a sheepish smile. “Is this new guy breedin’ those dogs he brought over with him?”
“That’s the thing.” I repeat what Tyler claims Harry did. “He made it sound like he will, just to spite the Hatchetts.”
Dad whistles. “Sometimes that family leans too much on their history around here. Things have changed, especially with Earl gone. It was foolish of Harry, trying to tell this man what he can and can’t do. Then again, Harry’s always been a fool.”
“Especially a guy like this one.” Who doesn’t seem like he’d back down from a fight. “Just wait until people around here see those dogs race. I’m telling you, Dad, they are impressive. The way they ran in formation, untethered?” I understand why Harry, a competitive guy by nature, would be nervous. Keeping a sled team is costly—thousands of dollars spent a year on a balanced diet of kibble, meat, and fish, housing them against the elements, outfitting them to race, bringing in veterinarian care for the revolving door of issues that arise from all those dogs together. It’s not unusual for a musher to spend thirty grand a year to prepare a team, and that’s not even considering the race fees, which are in the thousands themselves.
The Hatchetts pay for it by relying on sponsors, hosting tourist tours during the off-season, leasing dogs, and by breeding champion sled dogs for mushers. It’s an art form of sorts, pairing the right mix for speed, endurance, and attitude. Earl had a knack for it, his lines producing competent racers time and time again.
There have been plenty of doubts about Harry’s skills.
“So he thinks he’s gonna give Harry a run for his money at the race, huh? As a rookie in the Iditarod.” Dad’s skepticism is obvious.
“I don’t know, but he certainly thinks highly of himself.”
“Part of me would like to see that kid’s ego get knocked down a few pegs. He needs that before he loses whatever good grace being Earl’s son has afforded him. But the Hatchetts are also good for the sport. The fans really like them.”
Harry’s considered a local celebrity and media darling. He’s young, he never balks at giving an interview, and he has a face that female race fans flock to. But these fans haven’t met Tyler yet. What’s he like when he’s not being accused of abusing dogs? Does he have what it takes to charm the crowds?
Will they react to that ruggedly handsome face the same way I did?
Liz sets a bowl in front of Dad.
He examines the brownie suspiciously. “Has the warden approved?”
“Yes, it’s Liz’s special recipe.” Mom emphasizes special with a stare, which means it’s made with beets or cannellini beans or something equally unappetizing that the children are oblivious to and that won’t spike Dad’s blood sugar levels.
He hasn’t been able to eat a meal without Mom’s approval since his diagnosis. Fortunately for him, Liz can make even vegetable-laced brownies taste good, something we all appreciate.
The usual family dinner chatter takes over while we clean up. Then Liz bundles the girls to get them home for bath and bedtime and Vicki moans about her aching back as Oliver helps her pull her coat on.
Soon, it’s just Dad and I in the kitchen, with Yukon curled up next to Dad’s feet as he savors the last of his dessert.
“Jim called me yesterday. Told me to get you to increase your fees.”
“Really? He’s going to you now?”
“Because you won’t listen to him.”
“I did increase them.”
“That was three years ago, Marie.”
I’ve already had this conversation—twice since the fall. “Maybe Jim should decrease his accounting fees.”
Dad snorts.
“I’m fine. Overhead was a bit higher this year, and I have a few outstanding client bills that will get paid. But I’m fine.” I haven’t been flying out west nearly as much. I don’t have a mortgage to worry about, but there’s always something to repair or replace. Next up is my ultrasound machine, a fossil that needed to go five years ago. I could buy a new truck with what it’s going to cost, and the bank isn’t keen on lending me more. Thankfully, my father is willing to cosign for the loan.
Growing up with a veterinarian for a father, I was well versed in the realities of this career path before I submitted my application to vet school. I knew I wasn’t getting into this business for the paycheck, especially where I live. Still, sometimes I look at my life—at the amount of schooling I needed and the exorbitant debt I accumulated, at the nights I’ve spent curled up next to a sick patient I didn’t want to leave alone—and wonder if I would’ve been better off going to med school.
A job as a family practitioner might have been easier. It certainly would’ve been more lucrative. Here, I do it all—diagnostics, surgery, medicine, dental care—rather than simply write a referral, and I can only charge what people can afford. In the world of animal medicine, there is no government assistance, and few have insurance.
But humans have never interested me, not like animals do.
And when I watch those humans waffle about paying for treatment to help their pet, or when they tell me I’m wrong, or when they decide they don’t want to be in the room while I euthanize their family member and I’m the last face it sees … those days dealing with humans are especially frustrating.
“I’m not gonna tell you how to run your clinic,” Dad adds quietly, “even though it was my clinic and I ran it well for many years. But you are a highly skilled veterinarian, Marie. A certified surgeon. You could be working in the hospital in Anchorage, charging three times as much with all the education you’ve accumulated. No one’s going to think less of you for charging enough to cover your bills. And maybe doing less of the things you don’t get paid to do, like freezing your butt off in a tent for two weeks every March.”
“My sleeping bag is quite warm, actually,” I counter. And I’m usually sweating as I run around, tending to the dogs that come through the Iditarod checkpoints.
My dad groans at my flippant answer. “At least I can tell Jim I tried.”
My thoughts drift back to my day, that twinge of worry lingering. “So, what do you know about this musher, anyway? What have you heard?” Dad’s still well connected around the borough and the sled dog community. Aside from his longstanding friendships with Wade and Grant, he plays poker on Thursdays with Bill Compton, who writes feature stories for the Mat-Su Valley paper. And there are still plenty of mushing families who call his home number for a second opinion from time to time.
“This new Finnish guy?”
“He’s not Finnish. He’s American. Lower forty-eight.” Did Tyler grow up in Alaska and move away, only to move back? That’s what Jonah did. Or did he come for a visit and decide to stay? He wouldn’t be the first to do that.
Dad pushes his empty dessert bowl away. “His family in Finland is well known in the industry over there, mushers themselves. They have a reputation for taking good care of their dogs.”
“That would’ve been helpful to know before I went there,” I mutter.
“It would’ve been helpful to ask me before you went there.” He flashes a scolding look. “He won the Finnmarksløpet last year.”
I’d heard about his racing—and winning—Europe’s longest dogsled race. “So he knows what he’s doing.”
“Oh, I think he knows.” Dad chuckles. “Bill wanted to do a little exposé on him for the paper, help drum up excitement. The guy wouldn’t answer any questions. He said he doesn’t like the spotlight.”
Interesting. Usually mushers are all over any chance to talk about themselves and their dogs, hoping to
attract local sponsorships to help cover the steep costs of running a team. Harry posts videos on social media at least once a week of himself “educating” people on the world of mushing. He knows a lot about the sport, I will give him that. It’s his delivery that sometimes ruffles feathers.
“It was just him and that kid, Reed, from what I could see. Hard to run a competitive team without more help than that.” Mushers rely on their family, friends, and community during racing season. They need help in Nome, at the end of the race, and someone back in Anchorage, ready to collect dropped dogs. A guy with Tyler’s experience would know that.
Dad collects his spoon in a futile attempt to find any missed crumbs. “He must know someone around here.”
“He was name-dropping the police chief and the head of parks and rec, but I can’t see them playing handler. Maybe he was just bullshitting to try to scare us?”
“Who knows.” Dad tosses his spoon into the bowl with a yawn, giving up.
“I should head home. It’s getting late.” I reach down to scratch Bentley’s head. “What do you think? You want to come with me?” Sometimes I borrow him for the night. As much as I would love to come home to a dog every night, my lifestyle doesn’t allow for that.
Dad sighs, and I know he’s about to unload heavy thoughts. “Look, Marie, I know you’re doing what’s right, but you need to be more careful. You can’t have mushers going to the ITC about you. That mess with Skip last year stirred up a lot of noise for Wade.”
“He agreed with me.”
“Yeah, but he’s also gotten a lot of flak for it from a couple of the veteran volunteers who thought you were too hard on Skip.”
“One of Skip’s dogs developed pneumonia after the race.” It recovered—thank God—but maybe it wouldn’t have had it run those last seventy-seven miles.
Dad raises his hands in surrender. “Wade agrees, and he wants veterinarians like you there to make sure those dogs stay healthy. But there have been complaints—”
“From whom? More than just Skip?”
“One or two folks, saying you favored the Hatchetts. It’s baloney. I know you didn’t. Wade knows you didn’t. But Harry has rubbed some people around here the wrong way, and they’re looking for any way to hit back. You’re his vet.”
“I’m also Jed Carling’s and Darlene Wilcox’s vet.” Though they don’t show up at my clinic demanding I pull strings and pay visits. No one is as big a pain in my ass as the Hatchetts are on the regular, but no one else makes me as much. Their kennel is a busy business, and it pays well to be at Harry’s beck and call, as much as I despise it sometimes.
Dad lifts his hands again. “You asked what I heard, so I’m passing it along. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“Those people can shove their accusations up their asses.”
“Funny, isn’t that what you told Skip to do?” Dad chuckles. “Wade took you on as a rookie, and he’s thrilled to have you back every year. But he’s been doing that job for more than two decades, and it’s getting harder, with the sponsors dropping and all this noise from these activists. He’s not going to be doing it for much longer, and I know you’d be really unhappy if the person who replaces him doesn’t call you back.”
And there are enough veterinarians applying. People come from all over the world to volunteer.
“A lot of people still live for this race.”
“I know, Dad.” Tour companies that charge thousands per person to give tourists “the Iditarod experience,” villages that swell to two and three times their regular population, restaurants that earn a hefty share of their annual revenue in the first two weeks of March … they’d feel the absence of the race not just in their spirit but also their wallets.
“Locals are fed up with these anti-musher folks in their tiny New York and LA condos tellin’ Alaskans how to live. Now, if they start hearing that one of their own is sabotaging and threatening mushers, well … that could hurt you.”
Dad has always been keen on protecting our reputation, even more so as each new veterinarian moves into the valley.
I weave my fingers through Bentley’s mane, the simple effort soothing. “I think that guy’s threats were empty.” I hope they are. “He was just angry with how it all went down.”
“And how high was that horse you rode in on?”
“At least ten feet tall.” I should have treated the dog and brought her here, and then relayed Harry’s claim to the ITC and let them take over. I overstepped boundaries, allowing my anger to cloud my judgment. And if what Tyler told me is true, and he is rescuing—and treating—a wandering old dog that will be of little use to him, then maybe he isn’t so bad after all.
“Did you at least apologize to him?”
I give Dad a look.
“You know, sometimes you have too much of your old man’s pride. I wish you’d taken more after your mother.”
“Mom would have told him off.” Especially if he displayed that smug smile.
“Probably.” He scratches his chin in thought. “But you’ll likely be crossing paths with him at the checkpoint when he rolls in with his team, so maybe you should consider going out there and smoothing the waters. It’s better to be on good terms than the ones you left on.”
He’s right, but it doesn’t settle well with me. “Just the thought of going back out there makes my blood pressure spike.”
Dad gets that twinkle in his eye. “Hey, well, if you have to go to the doctor about that, make sure you bring a red crayon.”
I groan, my voice monotone as I deliver his corny punch line, “So she can draw my blood?”
He chuckles. “I guess I’ve told you that one already, huh?”
* * *
“Suck it up, Marie.” I take a deep, calming breath as my truck comes to a sliding stop at the end of the driveway. The sky is murky with no mountain range in sight. Today’s forecast is calling for upward of eleven inches of snow beginning this afternoon, but already, large flakes float through the air.
I spent the entire night and morning mentally preparing myself to face Tyler Brady again, but the farm gate blocks any hope of passage, a new chain hanging from the post.
“You don’t waste time, do you?” It’s a relief, though, because it means I don’t have to face him in person.
I slide out of the driver’s seat, the handwritten note that took me four attempts held tight in my mitten so as not to blow away with the breeze. It was a “just in case the gate is closed” letter, but also a way of sorting through my thoughts before I said them out loud. I’m not sure if any of those thoughts could be called an apology, exactly. More like a truce, with mention of how healthy his sled dogs looked while running yesterday. Either way, it’s the right thing to do. I’ll feel better after delivering this small olive branch.
My hand is on the door to the mailbox when I spot a new sign mounted on a tree just below the bright yellow No Trespassing warning—a large rectangular piece of plywood with fluorescent orange spray-painted letters that reads, “No Crusaders.”
“Oh, you child.” My cheeks burn as I march back to my truck, the note crumpled in my fist. I toss it to the floor of my passenger seat, throw my truck in drive, and pull away.
CHAPTER FOUR
March
The evergreen branches sag beneath the layer of freshly fallen snow as I coast up the driveway. Jonah’s hangar looms on my left, but Archie, his orange-and-white Piper, is already on the private airstrip, waiting for takeoff.
Jonah crouches in front, inspecting one of the skis. He’s wearing navy arctic overalls to keep his lower half warm while his parka hangs over the open cockpit door.
My heart squeezes as it does every time I see him, in that split second before I take a deep breath and remind myself that it wasn’t meant to be, that I’m happy for him.
Thankfully, as the months go by and reality settles in, the sadness isn’t so much a deep ache as a dull and lingering disappointment. I’m waiting for the day that fades, too. That’s when
I’ll feel like I’ve truly moved on.
I hop out of my truck and holler, “Wishing you were back in Hawaii yet?” I’ve only seen him once and briefly, right when he and Calla returned a month ago. The deep golden tan he was sporting is long gone, leaving him with his typical olive complexion.
“When I can be flying bales of straw and pork belly around Alaska instead? You kidding me?”
I laugh as my boots sink into the snow. He meets me halfway, enveloping me against his broad, warm chest and a soft flannel shirt that smells like Irish Spring soap. His stylish beard could use a trim, but it’s nowhere near the blond bush of pre-Calla days. Sometimes I miss it.
“How the hell did you rope me into doing this again, Marie?”
I savor his warmth for only a second—he runs hotter than the average human—and then I pull away, hyperaware that anything longer might be construed as beyond friendly on my part. “Because it’s winter, you’re bored, and frankly, it’s really easy to rope you into anything to do with flying.”
And the Iditarod needs volunteer pilots as much as they need veterinarians. Every year, at least thirty pilots step up to join the Iditarod Air Force, otherwise known as the IAF. They’re the ones hauling supplies and volunteers into the twenty-six—give or take, depending on the year—checkpoints, most of those locations only accessible by air. They also fly media around and take the dogs dropped along the trail back to Anchorage.
Jonah may be volunteering, but there is long-term opportunity, which is how I hooked him. Fans and tourists come from all over the world, eager to witness the race. They pay pilots a lot of money to fly them around, and as a flight charter company owner always looking for business, it’s an opportunity for Jonah to get involved, make himself known.
“Yeah, yeah.” Jonah grins sheepishly. “It’s been a few years, though. I forgot how much work it is.” He stretches his left arm out in front of him. “I’ve been hauling fifty-pound drop bags for two weeks.”
