by K. A. Tucker
“So, sensible is the way to go.” Honestly, it’s what I would have chosen in the end. That’s me— pragmatic Marie. Except when it relates to men and love, apparently.
“As tempting as it is to tell that twerp where to stuff it, because he would deserve that, he won’t go anywhere. He has an overqualified veterinarian catering to him. He’d have to be a damn fool to not see that.” Dad pauses, studying the expanse of bush-dotted knolls that make up Hatcher Pass. We’ve hiked this treeless area together for years—at first, with my younger sisters in tow, and then, when their love of the outdoors took a back seat to other things, just Dad and me.
I won’t lie—I prefer this. Secretly, I think he does, too.
In summers, we’d climb up to April Bowl, a shallow, turquoise-colored tarn, and beyond, traverse the ridge to Hatch Peak; in winters, we’d navigate the trails with snowshoes and avalanche transceivers strapped to our bodies. My mother was never keen on those excursions.
My favorite time to come, though, is the fall, just before they close the summit for the winter, when the bushes are tinged with burnt red leaves and the peaks are coated with crisp white snow, and there isn’t a soul in sight for miles.
Our adventurous treks were put on hold about five years ago when I brought home a silver husky named Aspen. She was thirteen, and while she loved the hikes, she couldn’t manage the climb. So we kept to easy trails, circling Summit Lake, collecting blueberries and fireweed, and looking for marmots and ptarmigan.
But then Aspen passed, and my father didn’t push to resume our more adventuresome hikes. He’d find excuses to avoid climbing to the ridge. “Next time,” he’d say. Or, “I can’t shake this leg cramp.”
The truth was my father had aged. It’d happened unbeknownst to me, somewhere in the seams of my busy life while I was so focused on what lay ahead for me in five, fifteen, twenty years. Sure, the birthdays passed and the years accumulated. I wasn’t blind to that. But my father was still here, as he had always been—a constant. The reality that he wouldn’t always be lingered in the recesses of my mind, but it was somewhere in the distant future.
And then Wren Fletcher died—too young and too quickly—and I came home from Western Alaska after that funeral, after watching Calla bury a father she’d only just reconnected with, and Jonah say goodbye to a man who’d treated him like a son, and for the first time, I truly noticed how white Dad’s hair had gotten, how wrinkled his hands were, how his gait was no longer that of a sturdy man but of a man who feels every step in his joints.
That’s when I started looking at the future in smaller increments. How much longer will I be able to bend my father’s ear for advice? Five years? Ten?
Will I be standing in this spot in a year’s time, talking out loud to myself, wishing he were around to tell a terrible joke?
“Looks like messy weather moving this way.” He nods toward a thick band of dark clouds moving in over the far ridge. Turning on his heels, he whistles to the dogs once again and begins heading back toward the road and parking lot.
But his pace is meandering, slow. Always a sign that something weighs on his mind. “Marie, you know how proud we are of you. Keeping the clinic going the way you have … Well, it’s made me so happy to be able to look out our kitchen window and see patients coming and going still, after all these years.”
“That’s why I took it over.” Even when I was doing my surgical residency with Wade Phillips in Anchorage, I saw myself coming back to work with my father. When his health problems kicked in, and he started talking about retirement, we struck a deal over apple pie and Coors Light, sitting at their kitchen table. I’d take over and pay my parents rent to cover their bills so they could stay in their home, my childhood home. It was a win-win for all.
“And I know Jim has been riding you a lot about the accounting side of things, but he does mean well. And money is something he understands.”
“Believe me, if there is something Jim is good at, I know that it’s counting every penny.” That and shifting all responsibility for his children to his wife. “But I don’t tell him how to run his accounting business, and I don’t need him telling me how to run my veterinarian business.” Sometimes I wonder if he’s sizing up the clinic’s earnings for my sister’s inheritance.
“See, that’s the thing. There’s always been two sides to this business. The animal care part, which no one’s suggesting Jim knows anything about, but then there’s the other side. You know, all the money stuff. And maybe it couldn’t hurt to have someone who knows that side well step in.”
“We’re doing fine. I have Cory.”
Dad gives me a guarded look. “Marie, you’re a brilliant veterinarian, but I’ve seen the numbers.”
I shrug. “I’m getting by!” Sure, the chunk that goes to my parents and to my student loans is considerable, but I don’t have much else in the way of expenses. “I live rent-free, and my debts could be worse but aren’t, thanks to you guys. I’m doing okay.”
“You could be doing more than okay if you weren’t such a bleeding heart. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled that you give so much of your time to helping, even when there isn’t a price tag attached to it. Liz could stand to have a bit of that rub off on her.” He says that last part more to himself. “But getting paid for your hard work doesn’t mean you don’t care about these animals. You care too much sometimes. Why else would you be wasting your talents here? You could be working with Wade down in Anchorage. He’d still hire you on—”
“But it’s not what I want. I like being my own boss. I like having flexibility.” Not that Wade would ever stop me from volunteering at the Iditarod. I’ve already accepted my invitation for next year’s race.
Yukon and Bentley take off after another marmot, ignoring Dad’s commanding whistle.
“These dogs,” he mutters, stepping over a crop of stones, the leashes dangling from his grasp. “How many years, and they haven’t figured out that they’ll never win against those little rodents—”
The stones roll beneath his boot, and my father loses his footing. He falls to the ground with a sickening crack.
“Dad!” I rush to him, collecting his wire-rimmed glasses off the ground, my adrenaline kicking in. His grimace of pain only amplifies my fears that it was no ordinary tumble. “Your ankle?”
“My leg,” he forces out between gritted teeth, tugging on his pants to ease up the hem.
“Oh, Dad.” I grimace at the ghastly display. His tibia has snapped like a twig, one end of it broken through his skin. Blood streams down his leg.
“I can’t see a thing.” He collects his glasses from my grasp and slides them back on, fussing for a moment to adjust before realizing that the frame is bent and giving up. “Would you look at that.”
“This is a bad break. We need to staunch that and get you help.” I check my phone, even though I know there’s no signal up here.
He winces as he shifts, unbuckling his belt and tugging it free. “I knew I wore my good leather one for a reason today.” He loops it around his thigh and fashions a tourniquet to stem the blood flow.
The dogs have abandoned their hunt for rodents and trotted to sit by my father’s side. Yukon whines, his nose dipping toward Dad’s leg.
“Oh, so now you two decide to come,” he grumbles but spares a moment to pat each of them on the head. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. Seventy-four years old and I’ve forgotten how to walk.”
I peer behind us, toward the road. We’re half a mile away. Too far for an injury like this unless there’s no other choice. “I’m going to get help. Someone will drive by soon enough.” I fasten the dogs to their leashes and then loop the handles around my father’s fist. “Just stay here. And keep your hands off it,” I warn. My father’s been known to skip medical professionals and stitch himself up from time to time, but there’s not a lot he can do out here.
“I’ll try my best,” my father says, a joking lilt in his tone, despite his grimace.
*
* *
With mounting frustration, I check the time again. I’ve been pacing this desolate dirt road for fifteen minutes without a single vehicle passing. Most days in June, I’d be complaining that it’s too busy.
All I need is one car. One person to drive by.
If I’d just started walking toward the parking lot, I’d have reached my car by now. From there, it’s a short drive to the lodge and help.
Regret burns inside as I contemplate standing here any longer until I decide I can’t wait for someone. I’m about to head to the car when I spot a familiar white-and-green pickup truck in the far distance, creeping along the winding road. It’s a park ranger. Even better than a random tourist. Relief envelops me as I jump and wave frantically. It’s already heading in this direction, but I need it to move faster.
The park ranger vehicle eases to a stop—there’s little room to pull over.
The man driving hops out.
My jaw drops as I take in Tyler’s face. “What are you doing here?”
He smirks. “I would’ve thought the truck and the uniform are pretty self-explanatory.”
“Yeah, but …” I take in the standard khaki-brown and green ranger uniform, the bulletproof vest, the sidearm strapped to his hip. He’s wearing a baseball cap rather than the broad-rimmed campaign hat, with State Park Ranger stamped across it in yellow lettering.
I guess this answers the question of what Tyler does for money if he’s not running sled tours through the summer. A lot of mushers work seasonal jobs, taking on as many hours as they can with fishing charter companies or other tourist-type work, or in construction, before they start their rigorous fall training schedule.
But no … “Over three million acres of park land in this state, and you have to work here,” I mutter under my breath.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Nothing.”
He frowns. “You were waving me down. Is there a problem?”
“Oh my God. Yes.” My momentary shock over seeing Tyler here disintegrates as I explain the situation and my father’s compound fracture.
I’ve barely finished talking when Tyler’s reaching for his radio. He calls in to dispatch as he calmly strolls back to the truck.
I don’t think a park ranger uniform has ever fit someone so well, but I shift my gaze—and my thoughts—to more pressing issues.
He climbs in, throws his hazards on, and pulls over precariously close to the narrow, shoulder-free edge before stepping out again. “An ambulance is on the way.”
My pace is brisk as I lead Tyler toward my father, an uncomfortable silence sitting on my shoulders, interrupted only by the occasional buzz of his radio.
“Slow down, Marie.”
“He’s been sitting out there alone for almost twenty minutes. He’s diabetic, and he has high blood pressure.” Not to mention the bone sticking out of his leg.
“I get it, but the ground is uneven, you’re panicking, and we don’t need more than one broken leg today.”
“I’m not panicking. I don’t panic. And I’ve been hiking here since I was five. I know how to walk—ahh!” The stones beneath my hiking boots roll, much like what caught my father off guard, and I lose my balance.
Before I tumble to the ground, Tyler is there, his viselike grip locking on my biceps while his other arm loops around my waist. I feel his strength as he hauls me back to my feet. “You good?”
I test my ankle. “Yeah. I’m fine.” I falter on a thanks, stealing a glance upward to find sincerity in his eyes. His hands are hot against my skin, even through my shirt, and a pleasing masculine scent of cedar and citrus peel teases my nose.
He shifts away and opens his mouth, but promptly shuts it before a told you so comment escapes.
Good. He has some restraint.
“So … is this a seasonal thing? This …” I wave a hand at Tyler’s uniform as we continue at a slightly slower pace. It must be. There’s no way he can carry a full-time job and train his dogs for the Iditarod.
“Yeah. Started back in April.”
“Those positions are hard to come by.” I remember Howie saying that his friend had been applying religiously for years and couldn’t get so much as a toe in. He ended up going down to the lower forty-eight.
“They are. Luckily, I know a few people.”
“Like the head of parks and rec,” I answer for myself, recalling that name-drop way back when. “Is this something you’ve done before?” Specializing in law enforcement, too, based on the vest and gun.
“I am qualified, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Oh yeah? How?”
He smirks. “Do you want to see my résumé?”
“Maybe.” There are so many things about this guy that I still don’t know. “Who takes care of the dogs while you’re here? Your brother?”
“Reed. Yeah.”
“How old is he?”
“This feels like an interrogation. Is the crusader worried that my dogs aren’t well cared for during the off-season? Do I need to bust out that humanitarian trophy you gave me?”
“I’m beginning to regret that vote.” It’s the second time he’s brought it up. “He just seemed a little young.” I spent ten minutes with that kid, and while he was at ease with the dogs, that’s a lot for anyone to handle.
“He’ll be twenty-one in the fall, and yeah, he is, in some ways. He can be painfully shy, especially around girls, but I’ve never seen anyone more in tune with those dogs.” Tyler hesitates. “Reed is my wife’s half brother. Her parents split when she was about ten. Her dad married an American and moved to Montana, where they had him. They have a mushing tour company down there, so he’s grown up around sled dogs. When I told him I was moving here and bringing her team with me, he asked if he could move, too.”
I don’t miss the way he refers to her as his wife. Not his late wife.
“And you just took him in.”
“Of course. He’s family. Plus, he’s a good kid, I trust him, and I like having him around.” He nods ahead. “Yours?”
Yukon and Bentley trot toward us, their leashes dragging behind them.
“Yes.” Panic surges. While the pass is a wide-open space, the knolls and low bushes make it easy to miss someone who might be sitting on the ground.
Or lying there, unconscious.
We pick up the pace and while I’m normally coolheaded in emergency situations, now I’m holding my breath while my mind churns through terrible worst-case thoughts.
We crest a hump and find Dad where I left him, fiddling with his glasses in an attempt to bend the wire frame back. “Is that you, Marie?” He slides his glasses on. “Oh, there you are. I was starting to think you’d abandoned me.”
I drop to my knees next to my father, my relief bringing a cold sweat to my skin. “How is it?”
“Still broken.” He offers Tyler a wan smile. “I supposed that’s not what you guys mean about leashing your dogs, is it?”
“No, but I think we can let it slide this time.” Tyler crouches on the other side of my dad, examining the protruding bone. “That’s a good break, all right.”
“I’ve been called an overachiever from time to time.”
My dad’s quippy humor is kicking in strong, which means he’s in a lot of discomfort and is trying to overcompensate.
“Help is a few minutes out. Luckily, they were in the area.”
“I hope that help is strong.” Dad scowls at the path to the road. “I tried to get up, but—”
“You didn’t.” I spear my father with a scolding glare before inspecting the wound more closely. The tourniquet seems to have done its job with stemming blood flow, but I’m more worried about infection the longer he’s sitting out here in the dirt. “At least you didn’t try to put it back together.” Stubborn old fool.
“Thought about it. Then I remembered that I’m better at setting bones on dogs than I am on humans, so I talked myself out of it.”
“That’s right. Marie told me you’re
a veterinarian, too.” Tyler’s gaze flickers to me. “Like father, like daughter.”
“Once upon a time. Now I leave the animals to Marie. She’s far better at it than I ever was.” He waggles a finger between us. “Why do I get the feeling you two know each other?”
“Dad, this is Tyler Brady. He won the—”
“Iditarod! That’s right! Of course, I’ve heard that name. Both Wade and Grant talked nonstop about you.”
A genuine smile fills Tyler’s face. “You know Wade and Grant?”
“I do. They’re good men. Terrible card players, but good men.”
Tyler’s chuckle is deep and soft. “Small world, I guess.”
“Wait until they hear about this.” Dad nods to the uniform. “Looks like you lead a busy double life.”
“I have a few things on the go, yeah.”
“Well, what a day … Marie never told me you two were friends.”
“Oh no, we’re definitely not friends. Marie has made it clear that she doesn’t need any more. She has too many. No time for more, I guess,” Tyler says dryly.
I roll my eyes, even as my cheeks flush.
“Oh yes, she’s a regular butterfly, that one.” But my dad frowns curiously at me. He knows better than anyone that my calendar is always kept open for animals and my friend circle is tiny. Almost nonexistent, it feels lately.
And now I look like an ass, but it’s better than having to explain why I’m unwilling to play friends with a man I’m attracted to ever again.
An ambulance siren carries in the distance, saving me from that conversation.
“Sounds like the cavalry is here.” My dad tries to shift and winces. “Good thing. My left butt cheek is asleep.”
“How long do you think it’ll take them to make it down?” I ask, worry tugging at my nerves.
“Not long. Hang in there.” Tyler pats my dad on the shoulder before standing. He starts back in the direction of the road, radio in hand.
My father’s focus trails after him. “So, that’s the one who saved the dog from Zed Snyder’s rifle?”
