Broken Trails

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  It was the woman who had helped her to her feet that afternoon.

  Without the parka, she looked better than Lainey remembered. She wore jeans and a rose-colored turtleneck sweater, revealing a lanky form that held more than a hint of femininity Her hair was short and curly, like Lainey's, but the lights sparked it into golden fire. Her smile was brilliant as she accepted her winnings, and a handshake from the Iditarod president. Then she spoke into the microphone, thanking her family and sponsors.

  With a start, Lainey aimed and shot, allowing the automatic shutter to keep collecting data as Scotch finished her speech. Completely enamored, it was not until the digital camera ceased that Lainey returned to the present. With a curse, she examined the readout to discover she had used up the entire data storage disk. She fumbled another from her pocket, but did not replace it quick enough to get a close up of Scotch leaving the stage.

  The rest of the night passed in a blur of photo ops and reveling. Knowing the job came first did little to console Lainey as she got the required interview with the top three placers. Her mind simply would not allow her to focus, constantly dragging her attention to one particular table. Disgusted at her lack of control, and at her inability to get more photos of that intriguing woman, Lainey was almost relieved when she saw the Fuller celebrants leaving the banquet. At the same time, however, she had an abrupt urge to follow them, properly introduce herself and thank Scotch again for her assistance that afternoon.

  Late that night, after her final installment had been sent to Strauss, she sat in the dark of her hotel room. The only illumination was her laptop display. Lainey had taken the consecutive photos of Scotch Fuller, stringing them together to create a movie of sorts. She sat at the desk, chin in her hands as the impromptu movie played on a continuous loop.

  What kind of person was she? Was her name real or a nickname? Did she have a boyfriend? A husband? She had to be a strong individual. Winning tenth place in a thousand mile dog sled race was not something to sneeze at. She was the highest placing woman this year, too.

  An Internet search had turned up some interesting facts. Scotch was twenty-three, and this was her third Iditarod, her best time overall. This year she had also won the Leonhard Seppala Humanitarian Award for the care she had given her dogs. Would she make another Iditarod attempt next year? Did she have what it took to win? And why the hell would a beautiful woman want to torture herself by racing dogs?

  Most importantly, where had she acquired such self-assurance and poise? She was a kid, born and raised in the boonies. Yet, she carried herself with a level of confidence Lainey had only seen in ancient matriarchs of various cultures around the world. Sure, a lot of women in America held themselves the same way, what with the advent of the women's liberation movement. If feminism had made such great strides in the Alaskan bush, however, then why was Lainey routinely referred to as “little missy' by the front desk clerk? Scotch seemed to carry a lot of weight with the men around her, more of an equal than as a woman. It was only natural Lainey found the subtle authority . . . exciting.

  She closed her eyes, the light of the display flickering against her lids. Regardless of her blindness, she still saw Scotch, sharing a smile with her. Her thoughts took her to other, more intimate questions, as her fingers began to stray along her body.

  What did she taste like?

  "Alaska?” Benjamin Strauss asked. To give him credit, he did not sound nearly as confused as his expression indicated. "You're kidding.”

  Lainey leaned back in her chair, and sipped her espresso. "Nope. I'm dead serious.”

  They sat in a small coffee shop in midtown Manhattan. Through the window, Lainey watched the wildlife of New York rush about on the corner of 57th Street and Sixth Avenue, every one of them bundled against the chill of a late winter rain. Even with the cold, she only felt a twinge from her injury, a relief after her sojourn north.

  Strauss' tan was incongruent with his business suit and well-trimmed salt and pepper hair. Ruddy features proclaimed an outdoorsman, though his clothes and demeanor screamed corporate executive. Lainey knew him to be more the former than the latter, having spent several months in the Australian outback on a shoot with him. They had met and become fast friends, the intervening years tightening their bond. He had been her sponsor in Alcoholics Anonymous, and remained a staunch supporter of her through her abrupt shift from war correspondent to nature photographer.

  He scrubbed his worn face, and peered closely at her. "Who are you and what have you done with Lainey Hughes?”

  "Ha ha,” she said, her face stony though the humor flashed in her eyes. "You did say you would agree to the next story I pitched.”

  "No, I didn't,” he said, waving a finger at her. "You hung up on me.”

  Lainey made a rude noise. "We both know you would have said yes.”

  A grin crossed his face. ‘maybe,” he allowed.

  She waved his objections away, and returned to the subject. "Well? What do you think? Is it feasible?”

  He mirrored her seriousness. "Considering we just published an Iditarod story this issue,” he said, tapping the current copy of Cognizance on the table between them, "why should I do it again in a year?”

  "Because this spread was a onetime article about the race.” Lainey set down her cup, and leaned forward to convey her enthusiasm. "I propose following one musher from sign up in June, through training, and the race itself. We could pull it off as an in-depth expose of an up and comer; either a full cover to cover issue next year, or quarterly installments beginning this July.”

  Strauss' fingers drummed upon the table. "Which up and comer?”

  She casually relaxed in an effort to disguise her true interest. “Scotch Fuller, tenth place winner this year.”

  "What makes this guy so special?”

  “The fact that she's a woman,” Lainey said. “This was her third Iditarod, and she's consistently improved over the years. Talk is that she has a good shot at winning next year' all things being equal.”

  "A woman?”

  "Yeah.” Lainey felt her hackles rise at his tone. She forced herself to not respond to her defensiveness. In this case, Strauss had every right to be on his guard. She did not understand this bizarre instinct calling her back to a snow locked hinterland; she doubted he would either, even if she tried to explain it to him. In any case, this was still a potentially lucrative idea.

  "A good looker, no doubt.”

  “She's not bad on the eyes,” she said. Before he could go any further, she sat up, thrusting out her chin. "It's not about that.”

  Strauss feigned innocence. "About what, exactly?”

  Scoffing, she said, "It's not about a roll in the hay, Ben. I really think there's a story here.” Lainey attempted to appear earnest. That her idea involved her spending more time in the presence of Scotch Fuller only sweetened the pot.

  He frowned at her. "What about the cold? I know how it messes with your ribs. You're not going to do either of us any good if you're too racked with pain to get out in the field.”

  She dismissed his fears with a scornful expression. "Come on, it's been years since I've been anywhere that was below forty-five degrees. I admit I ached some on this trip, but it wasn't as bad as I expected,” she lied.

  His examination remained focused, as if he sensed her falsehood.

  "Oh, please,” Lainey said. "Besides, no piece of ass is worth that amount of aggravation. And she's straight.”

  She seemed to have pacified him, his suspicious expression fading. "All right. Say I go for it. What are you looking at for compensation?”

  Lainey grinned. If he was talking money, the gig was a sure bet. "Put me on the payroll from June through March of next year. I'll have to pay living expenses, and you know how much photojournalists make in a year. My savings account ain't going to cut it for that long.”

  Ever the journalist despite being the editor of a magazine these days, Strauss pulled a leather bound notepad from his breast pocket. As h
e scribbled a note, he asked, "What about copyright?”

  "It stays with me.”

  He looked at her from beneath his brows. "As much as I understand your end of the business, Lainey, my bosses aren't going to let that fly. I'm putting my neck on the line to hire you, as temporary as that will be, and with little immediate payoff. I need something to bargain with, or you peddle this story someplace else.”

  She narrowed her eyes in thought, staring at the street. The rain had stopped, though the sun remained muted by the clouds overhead. After a long pause, she said, "Okay. You retain copyright of what I send you. But I reserve the right to not send you everything. The salary pays for three full pictorial and written articles.”

  Strauss pursed his lips, and then nodded. ‘sounds fair. I know you won't stint on the articles at the magazine's expense.” He wrote the agreement down. "Let's get back to my office, and have the legal department draw up a contract. As of this afternoon, you'll be an official temporary employee of Cognizance.”

  Grinning, Lainey stood, and donned her jacket. She could not wait to get started. Her heart filled with enthusiasm, even though this was only the first step. There were still so many things she needed to get done, so many plans to make.

  She supposed now would be a good time to call Scotch Fuller and pitch the idea to her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  April

  SCOTCH DOLED THE last of breakfast into Idduna's bowl. The dog gazed at her with adoration, ignoring the food as she wriggled in pleasure. Dropping the feed pail, Scotch lavished her with a thorough scratching. Only then would Idduna attend her meal, a combination of moistened chow, rice and hot water.

  Around Scotch, the rest of the kennel greedily ate up their offerings. Her brother and sister had finished their sections, both threading through the canine population toward the dog kitchen, and she joined them. After years of habit, they hardly spoke as they continued their daily ritual. Irish, nine years old, collected the feed pails to rinse out, and store inside the barn. Scotch and her brother, Rye, pulled the fifty-five gallon drum that doubled as a huge pot off the barrel stove. While Rye rolled it outside the kitchen area for cleaning, Scotch hung the stir 'spoon' - a snow shovel - on a hook. Then she threw sand across the floor to soak up any spills before sweeping the concrete floor clean.

  As she worked, she kept her mind occupied with thoughts of Idduna. The dog had gone into heat a week into the Iditarod, considerably distracting the team. It had taken quite a bit of creative management to keep her separated from the eager boys, but Scotch had succeeded. When the race was over, she had allowed one of her leaders, Sukita, to breed the bitch. She expected Idduna would give birth by mid-May, and she already contemplated the potential of the pups. Idduna was a solid dog in her team, and Sukita one of the smartest. He could sense a blown out trail where most dogs would get lost. Scotch wondered if she should have called him Sonar, because he certainly had the gift. Would the pups inherit that gift, too?

  When she finished her chore, she and Rye returned the pot to its place in preparation of the next feeding that afternoon. In the meantime, Irish gave their two large free run kennels a cursory inspection. They evidently met with her approval, and she began the process of transferring five dogs into each one for some playtime. Ten more would have an opportunity to carouse together that afternoon.

  "Kids!"

  Turning back to the cabin, she saw her mother leaning out the back door.

  "When you're done with the scooping, we've got a board meeting.”

  Rye waved comprehension. "Okay, Mom.”

  "Wonder what that's about,” Scotch said, pulling two shovels from their storage pegs. She followed Rye, who lugged a plastic trash barrel, out to the dog yard.

  "You got me,” he said. "I didn't expect a board meeting until the first of the month.”

  “Me neither.” They began the job of scooping excrement from around the dog enclosures, a nasty yet entertaining one as the canines did their level best to distract them. As usual, the dogs succeeded somewhat, receiving scratches and pats as the siblings worked their way through the crap left by ninety-five animals. Fortunately, break up had not yet occurred, making the chore not as filthy as it would have been had there been melt off and mud on the ground. That would happen soon enough.

  “Maybe it's your adoring public,” Rye eventually said, grinning as he wiped sweat from his forehead with one arm.

  Scotch snorted, a smile on her face, and kept shoveling. "If my 'adoring public' will bring in money to sponsor me for next year, I'm for it.”

  "I hear you, sis.”

  With the job completed, they put things away, and headed into the main house. The minimal heat of the entry was uncomfortable after her work out. Scotch divested herself of boots, work gloves, and jacket. She followed her siblings inside, inhaling the aroma of bacon and eggs with appreciation as she removed further layers of clothing. After cleaning up, the family sat down to a big Sunday breakfast.

  Leaning back in his chair, Rye patted his belly in contentment. “That was wonderful,” he said to his mother who had begun clearing the table.

  Helen Fuller, still clad in a bathrobe and slippers, put dishes in the sink for later washing. She wiped her hands on a towel. “Thank you.”

  Scotch passed her, pausing to kiss her mother's cheek. Dodging two-year-old Bon, who precariously balanced his silverware on his plate, Scotch rid herself of her dish before scooping him up.

  “Sco' help!" Bon exclaimed as his older sister lifted him high enough to put his brightly colored plastic plate with the rest.

  "Bon help,” Scotch said. She planted him on her hip, reaching for a washcloth to remove the sticky residue of pancakes and syrup from his grinning face.

  “So what's up with a board meeting?” Rye asked, ruffling Bon's white blond hair in passing, and returning to the table. "Is it that phone call you got last night?”

  Scotch drifted back to her chair, and Bon contented himself for the moment to remain in her lap. "What phone call?”

  "It was after you'd gone back to your cabin, dear,” her mother said. She sat down, and retrieved a notepad and pen from an armoire behind her. ‘shall we begin?”

  Thomas Fuller nodded, and he wiped his red mustache and beard with a napkin. “The Fuller Kennel board of directors is called to order,” he said. "All members present and accounted for.”

  Scotch smiled. She had been a member of the board since she was Bon's age when the kennel had come into existence. Her parents had legally incorporated it and, at the birth of each child after, officially added a new member.

  "Last night we got a call from a reporter for Cognizance.”

  “They just published an article about the Iditarod,” Helen informed them.

  Both Rye and Irish immediately looked at their sister. Scotch felt her face heat up. She smothered a shiver, and her entire being seemed to pause between one heartbeat and the next. It was similar to what she experienced when the team first took off from the starting line; anything could and would happen in the coming moments.

  “They want to do an in-depth piece on Scotch for next year.”

  Irish whooped, clapping her hands. Bon followed suit, enthusiastic as he enjoyed the atmosphere.

  “That's fantastic!" Rye said, when things died down. ‘so, why the meeting? What's this got to do with the kennel?”

  Thomas leaned back in his chair. “The reporter has requested to live and work here from sign up to the race next year.”

  Scotch's innards swooped low. It was one thing to get decent publicity, opening avenues of sponsors to help defray the costs of the kennel and racing itself. But to have some stranger living with her family? The idea of being under constant surveillance was creepy at best.

  "Live here?” Irish asked, wrinkling her freckled nose. "I'm not giving up my room.”

  "You won't have to,” Thomas said.

  "I get to move into my cabin?” Rye's eyebrows rose in anticipation. The property was large enou
gh that several cabins and out buildings had been erected over the years. As his sister before him, one was being built for his eighteenth birthday and official adulthood.

  "Not at sixteen, mister,” his mother said.

  Rye's face fell.

  "Well, providing we vote to accept him, where's he going to sleep?” Scotch asked.

  Her father grinned. "He's a she, and there's room at your place.”

  “My place?” The entire idea was going beyond creepy now. "Why my place?”

  “She'll be here to do an article on you, honey,” Helen said. "What better place for her?”

  Unable to argue the logic, Scotch held her tongue.

  “This reporter, Miss Hughes, she says the magazine will either do an intensive issue after the race, or do a series of articles leading up to and past it.” Thomas leaned his elbows on the table. "You know how tight money is. She's willing to pay room and board, and work at the kennel on top of things. With this exposure, Scotch, you could get national sponsorship. Hell!" He slapped the table, causing the detritus of their meal to rattle. "You might even get the magazine to sponsor you!"

  Scotch considered her father's words. Being intimately acquainted with the kennel and finances as all of them were, she saw the truth of his words. Granted, the Fullers were well enough off to afford nice things, but that was in large part due to Fuller Construction, Thomas' business, and Helen's veterinarian practice. The kennel itself paid for Scotch's racing fees, and she spent summers running tours and adventures to bring in money to cover costs.

  She weighed the absence of financial problems against the thought of some stranger living in her cabin with her. For months. What if this woman was a shrew, or a neat freak? What if she snored?

  Realizing that everyone was looking to her for a cue, Scotch blushed, covering her embarrassment by jostling Bon who was still in her lap. "What did she sound like?” she asked, not pleased with the wistful tone in her voice.

  Her father seemed to understand the true question. ‘she sounds excited with the idea. Apparently she was at the awards banquet, and that's where she came up with it.” He gave his oldest daughter a serious look. "I think she's done her research, and really wants to make this work.”