by K. A. Tucker
“Honestly, I’m still taking it one day at a time. Between my savings, Mila’s life insurance, and a decent inheritance from my parents when they sold their property to developers, I have enough money to keep me going for a bit. I’ll race this team until they can’t race anymore. After that …” He shakes his head. “Reed wants to compete, so maybe I’ll help him get set up with a team and then I’ll see about something more permanent for myself, up in Denali, working with the dogs there.”
He’s talking deep within the park. There is an expansive area that is only accessible by sled dogs in the winter, where anything motorized is banned.
He inhales deeply, as if that’ll expel the weight of the topic. “How’s our friend Harry doing, by the way?”
“Harry? I have no idea. I guess you haven’t heard?” I assumed everyone would have by now.
Tyler frowns. “Heard what?”
“I’m no longer the Hatchett Kennels’ veterinarian.”
His eyebrows arch. “Are you kidding me? Since when?”
I hesitate.
Tyler’s head falls back. “Since you took me on, and he found out.” The muscles in his jaw clench. “What a little shithead.”
“It was going to happen eventually.” Tyler’s rage reminds me of Jonah’s, and it’s oddly satisfying. “Things have not been going well for Harry, and he’s looking for everyone else to blame so he doesn’t have to take responsibility. Let him learn the hard way how good he had it.” I just hope it’s not at the dogs’ expense.
“Do you know who he went to?”
I clear my throat. “From what I’ve heard … Frank Hartley.”
Tyler’s bellow of laughter echoes through the night. Across the property, through the open windows, Yukon and Bentley howl in response.
“Shhh!” I give his boot a playful kick. “You’ll wake my parents.” My dad has no doubt fallen asleep in his chair watching TV.
“It’s been awhile since I’ve had to worry about that.” Tyler shifts to peek through the window behind him. The curtains are open, and the lamp inside casts enough light to see most everything—the kitchenette, the couch, my bed in the back. “I meant to ask, whatever happened with your friend after last weekend?”
“Who, Jonah?” I shake my head. “Nothing.” I dropped off flowers and nonalcoholic wine the next day, apologized for ducking out before I had a chance to congratulate them, Jonah pestered me about making out with Tyler in the parking lot—he obviously made a sharp turn back the way he came and missed the worst of it—and that was that. If he or Calla suspected there was more to it than some rush of hormones between Tyler and me, they never hinted at it. Besides, Jonah’s too busy bouncing around their place and measuring one of the spare rooms for the nursery to think about anything else.
“So, it worked, then?”
“Seemed to.” Too well, because all I’ve been thinking about all week is the feel of Tyler’s mouth and hands on me, and him, inside me.
Wishing for an excuse to experience it again.
Right now would be ideal.
A heady mood settles over the space within my screened-in porch, intensifying with each passing moment. Is that why he’s here?
It can’t go that far, anyway, I remind myself. My period came yesterday morning. Still, I can think of a dozen ways I’d like to touch him.
I check the monitor for a distraction from my illicit thoughts.
Tyler must take that as his sign to leave because he eases out of his chair with a stretch. “I should get going. Reed’s been home alone all day.”
Disappointment bursts within me, but I tamp it down. “You need to bring him out more. He should make some friends.”
“You try telling him that. The guy’s not too keen on meeting new people. I think he’d honestly rather be out there in the woods alone with the dogs.”
“Bring him around the Ale House on a weekend next time you go.”
“I think that owner would send him into hiding for the next decade.”
“Muriel?” I laugh. “Nah. She’d put him to work.”
Tyler finishes the last of his beer and then sets the remaining cans on the table by my feet.
“For me? How sweet.”
“It’s the least I could do after showing up here and making you cut off a dog’s leg.”
“Not just a dog. The most famous dog I might ever meet. But at least I’ll get paid in full.” I’ve always hated thinking about my patients in terms of money, but everyone around me does. Maybe that’s where I’ve gone wrong all these years.
Tyler moves for the door but then stalls, his brow furrowed. “I’m sorry about Harry. I know you said you needed the money from his kennel.”
“He needs me more. He’ll be back.” I don’t necessarily believe it, but if there’s one thing I hate showing, it’s vulnerability.
“Make him beg.”
“More than I made you beg?” I wink to show that I’m teasing.
His eyes drift slowly over my face, over my plaid jacket and my oversized gray sweatpants, all the way down to my dust-covered running shoes. He hesitates for a long moment. “All that stuff you said in the truck last weekend … there’s nothing wrong with wanting that in your life and being sad when you don’t have it.”
Or when you’ve lost it all, as in Tyler’s case. I’m not sure what’s worse. At least I’m only plagued by longing for something I’ve imagined but never experienced.
He’s haunted by actual memories, by real loss.
My heart sinks, and the urge to wrap my arms around him for comfort, as he did for me last weekend, is overpowering.
I don’t know how to respond, so I simply nod.
“And as far as your ex goes, you didn’t make a mistake. You left him because deep down you knew he wasn’t right for you. If he were, you wouldn’t have cared about possibilities with someone else. It’s as simple as that.”
“Maybe you’re right.” I toy with a thread on my sleeve, unable to meet his gaze as I admit with embarrassment, “But I’m beginning to think there isn’t anyone right for me.” Friends have married and divorced, and remarried again, and here I am, choosing between deadbeat dads and blind dates set up by my family.
“There is. There’s a person out there for everyone.” He pats the door frame. “If we’re lucky, maybe even two.”
I watch Tyler’s back as he walks slowly to his truck, his steps faltering … once … twice … as if he’s reconsidering leaving. But that’s just my wishful thinking. This is what I’m good at: getting caught up in fantasy.
He climbs into his truck and pulls away.
Was this impromptu visit a one-off? Or might it be something I’ll be treated to again?
I hope for the latter.
Even if it’s only as friends.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I give Dingo’s long, velvety ears a gentle stroke. “I’ll meet you out front with the prescription. It’ll take about ten days to clear up the kennel cough and then bring him back for his Bordetella shot. It’s the only way you can avoid this.”
“You got it, Doc. Hey, before you go …” Scott Ponsford lifts his shirt to his neck with both hands, revealing a full chest of dark hair and a rash that stretches down over his round belly. “What do you think this is? It’s itchy as hell.”
“Um …” I clear my throat, caught off guard. “My guess would be an allergic reaction, but I highly recommend you go and see your doctor for a diagnosis. My expertise is with patients like Dingo here. Not humans.”
“Yeah … What could I be allergic to, though?” He grimaces at his body. “And it goes down, past my belt—”
“Definitely something to ponder with your doctor. See you out front.” With one last playful stroke over the beagle’s ear, I slip out of the exam room to the back, my palm pressed over my mouth to muffle my laughter. It’s not the first time a client has tried to hijack their pet’s appointment, looking for medical advice. Normally, they’re a bit subtler about it.
; Ten minutes later, after Dingo and Scott (and Scott’s rash) are gone, I’m in the lobby, checking the mail before I head out to Jed Carling’s kennel to give his puppies their first set of shots and check on two dogs that got into a fight.
I set the utility bill in the To Pay folder behind the desk, freeing my hands to knead the sore muscle in my neck, earned after lugging Oliver and Vicki’s furniture down and up flights of stairs all day yesterday. My entire body ached when I woke up this morning, and it’s grown progressively worse as the day has gone on.
“That was the fourth new patient booked this morning. A Jack Russell named Jacqueline who hates men,” Cory declares as she drops the phone receiver on its base. “Your calendar is filling up fast. Between new clients and a bunch of procedures, next week is going to be busy.”
“That’s good for us.” I step into my rubber boots and haul my travel bag from behind the counter. “I’m heading out now.” And looking forward to coming home and curling up in my bed. The forecast is calling for this heavy rain to continue into tomorrow.
“Marie, I’ve been attached to this phone all week. I hear it ring in my sleep. Some of these people want your full résumé. Others want a rundown of everything we do here before they move their pets over. If this keeps up, we’re going to have to hire someone for the desk. At least part-time.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll die down soon. But I already talked to my mom, and she said she’d help out if we need it—”
“We need it.” Cory’s holding the tail of her French braid in her fist—a sign that she’s stressed—as she points to the newspaper sitting on the counter. “And it’s because of that.”
The Anchorage paper arrived yesterday, but I didn’t have time to read it. I pause to unfold it now. Beau’s lovable face fills the full-page cover story.
As expected, Rachel and Beau’s tale has grabbed headlines, not just in the Mat-Su borough but all over the state, amplified by the unique details—Beau, being an internet celebrity and the park ranger hero being none other than this year’s Iditarod champion. The call to ban trapping in Nancy Lake Recreation Area has already been made, a petition circulating to collect signatures growing each day, and the pro-trappers are already on the defensive, pointing out the obvious—that no ban would stop this from happening because whoever did it doesn’t care about regulations.
Tyler has hidden behind the cover of his department head and the ongoing investigation to avoid dealing with reporters. Cory has passed the receiver over with more than one waiting on the line, looking to verify facts about Beau’s medical condition. I’ve shared what Rachel has permitted me to share and nothing more.
But Rachel is not staying quiet. The twenty-one-year-old has a steel spine where her dog is concerned. She’s been online nonstop, sharing every minute detail about Beau’s misfortune. She even went back to the spot on the trail to record herself retelling the story in detail, bringing a friend to set a leghold trap and triggering it with a stick to amplify the horror of what Beau went through.
Beau himself has caught plenty of the limelight, with Rachel’s friend Morgan video-documenting their reunion the morning after the surgery, and Beau’s struggles to get from my clinic and into the car, aided by Cory and me and a heavy blanket to lift him. He’s gained a few hundred thousand followers since, from all over the world. Even I’ve found myself checking the account daily for updates on his progress, cringing when I see myself captured in some of her posts. Those always come with her steadfast praise about the care and dedication “Marie the Crusader” has shown throughout this traumatic experience.
Honestly, I didn’t expect to see Rachel or Beau again once they drove off, but she returned with him yesterday for a follow-up appointment and is booked to come back again in another week. I am now officially Beau’s doctor, as declared on Instagram.
That, plus all the media swirl, has kicked up a cloud of pet owners who are either unhappy or apathetic toward their current veterinary care or are curious to learn more about “one of the most talented veterinary surgeons in the country, who’s hiding out right here in the valley.” My credentials are inflating by the day.
The phone rings as the clinic’s doorbell chimes. I look up from the paper to see Calla and Mabel strolling in, their curious gazes roaming the clinic’s little reception area.
“… So, you’re saying you’re new to us!” Cory gives me a wide look as she speaks to the caller. “Yes, we’ve had quite a few calls recently because of Beau’s story.”
I dismiss her as she jots down information and instead round the counter to greet our visitors. “What are you guys doing here?” My focus inadvertently drifts toward Calla’s belly, looking for a hint of the baby growing inside, but it’s far too soon. She’s not due until March. “Is Bandit okay?”
“Oh yeah, he’s fine.” She waves off my concern, pausing on my framed mugshot, her perfectly shaped eyebrow arching. “We were on our way to Target, so we thought we’d stop. Mabel was hoping you might have some puppies running around.”
“I’m sorry, we don’t. Not for a while now.” We’ve taken in rescue litters from time to time, keeping them in the clinic until they’re adopted out. I shift my focus to Agnes’s daughter. It stuns me how much she’s grown in just a few years. She was an exuberant little girl when I met her, prattling nonstop and tailing Jonah around. Now, words need to be dragged from her. “How do you like living in Trapper’s Crossing so far?”
“Yeah, it’s fine, I guess.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, doing her best to remain aloof as she drifts around the room.
“Muriel has been keeping her busy at the resort, cleaning cabins.”
The sharp look Mabel shoots Calla says that part of moving to Trapper’s Crossing has not been fine.
Calla’s eyes sparkle with amusement. At least she’s not taking teenager syndrome personally. “Jonah said everything went well yesterday with moving your sister in?”
“We got it done in half the time with his help.” Frankly, we wouldn’t have gotten it done at all. Vicki’s bedroom furniture was far too heavy for me and Oliver, and Jim conveniently had to work. “I take it he told you all about Beau the Bear-nese?”
“Yes!” Calla exclaims. “I spent all night catching up online. I am so impressed.”
I laugh. “I knew you would be.”
“Sounds like it’s helped drum up some business for you, though?” Calla’s face pinches with concern. I have a feeling Jonah mentioned my financial woes. Is that why she’s standing in my clinic’s lobby for the first time since she moved here?
“It has. We’ll see how long it lasts. How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay. Tired. More because I cut out caffeine than anything.” Her lips twist with a sour expression. “You don’t realize it’s going to be the last time you have a cup of coffee for nine months until after you’ve had it. Hey, so, how old is this picture of you?” She points to the wall.
I school my expression, fighting my urge to laugh. She can’t let it go. “A few years, maybe?”
“You know, it’s always good to keep these things updated. I have a pretty good camera. I could come by and take a few new headshots for you. Something fresh and …” She searches for the word.
“Less like she belongs on the six o’clock news for a meth-induced string of murders?” Cory chirps, ending her call.
Finally, Mabel’s face cracks with a smile.
“It’s okay.” I laugh. “I know how bad it is. It’s more a joke than anything at this point.”
“Oh, thank God,” Calla mutters under her breath, frowning at the framed picture. “But still, Marie. Okay, let’s make plans. Soon.” She hesitates. “And I was also thinking, I could update your website, if you want?” It’s a tentative question, her nose wrinkling as if afraid she’s overstepping. “I was skimming it last night and, I don’t know, it could use some—”
“Yes, please,” Cory pleads, nodding vigorously, first to Calla and then to me. “I meant to spend some t
ime on it this summer, but I’m swamped with wedding plans, and now this”—she gestures at the phone—“we don’t even have the right hours listed.”
“It won’t take me long.”
Cory doesn’t understand what Calla means when she says “update.” “Thank you for the offer, but I can’t sink money into that now.” I looked into design costs once after flipping through Frank Hartley’s professionally built website. I could stock my shelves with syringes and gauze for months with that amount.
She waves my words away. “Consider it payment for all the times you’ve come by to check on Bandit and Zeke. We owe you.”
And I’m certain now that Jonah has told her everything.
She looks around my lobby. “You know, a plant might look nice in here. It doesn’t have to be real.”
She says plant, but she’s already picturing different chairs and wall art. Probably new flooring, too. This is what Calla does when she walks into a neglected space, whether it’s by passion or compulsion. She somehow even managed to get her creative hands past Muriel and on the Ale House, and now its wayward personality is stylized with some semblance of intention. Small details, like harmonizing vinyl tablecloths, frames to replace the thumbtacks on the photographs, lanterns on windowsills, and montages of kitschy signs rather than a clutter of them. It’s still the same bucolic watering hole, just with more charm.
I will be the first to admit Calla’s wildly talented, as I’ll also admit my clinic lobby fits the profile of a neglected, zestless space. But I can’t spend money on a remodel.
The clinic’s phone rings.
“Ten bucks says it’s a new patient,” Cory drones as she reaches for it. “Lehr Animal Care, Cory speaking …” Cory frowns as she listens. “Yeah, she’s here. Hold on a sec, okay?” She covers the receiver rather than putting it on hold. “Tyler’s brother is on the phone? Sounds like there’s something wrong at the kennel, and he can’t get hold of Tyler.”
* * *
The rain falls in sheets against my windshield as I slam my foot against the brakes. My truck skids to a halt in front of the gate blocking the driveway. I’d thought Reed would come out on his ATV to open it, but I realize now what a foolish expectation that was. With how frantic he sounded, there’s no way he’d leave Nala’s side. He probably didn’t think about this obstacle.
