Alaska Heart

by Christine DePetrillo

  I took the card. “I appreciate that. Thank you.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him the magazine had organized a car for me while I was in Alaska.

  I tossed a wave over my shoulder and turned toward the resort entrance. First step was to get settled. Check out this massive log cabin. Plan my attack on Denali. I didn’t have a ton of time and had to make every minute count. I was on a mission.

  A gust of wind whipped through the trees as I climbed the split log steps to the front door. I gathered my coat tighter around my neck. Maybe a couple minutes in a hot shower first wouldn’t hurt my timetable.

  Overall, Moose Point was gorgeous. An antique four-posted bed made of walnut filled most of the bedroom. A matching dresser lined one wall. A patchwork quilt that looked handmade covered the bed, along with plump pillows. In one corner, a walnut writing desk sat waiting for me to compose. Framed photographs of deer adorned two of the walls. It was cozy as a log cabin should be, even though it was larger than my entire apartment back home.

  After a shower, I wrapped in one of the plush towels and lay on the king-sized bed. I closed my eyes as the faint smell of pine from the live tree in the corner of the room filled my senses.

  Forcing myself to not fall asleep, I lugged my body off the bed and padded to one of the wide windows offering a view of the back of the resort. Pine trees, tall and dense, as far as the eye could see stood sentinel behind the building. Clumps of snow hung on the sagging branches, and various tracks, both animal and human, zigzagged across the ground. I was a long way from the crowded, noisy streets of New York.

  My stomach growled loudly in the silence. Time to get food in me. After I dressed, I went to the front desk of the resort and craned my neck to look at the monstrous man seated behind it.

  “Hi.” My voice echoed in the quiet of the lobby.

  The beast behind the desk rolled a pair of dark, uninterested eyes my way. He took his time folding the newspaper he was reading before getting up. His nametag simply said “Bear,” and that he was. Thick black suspenders looped over his red and black flannel shirt, holding a pair of dark blue jeans in place around his stout waist.

  “Do you know which car out there is for Alanna Cormac?” I asked.

  “Yep.” He looked at me with narrowed eyes.

  “Could you tell me which one it is? Please.” Don’t provoke Bear seemed like a sensible plan.

  “You Alanna Cormac?” He leaned on his elbows on the desk between us. His massive face was inches from mine, and I swallowed loudly.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “In that case, it’s the gray Explorer parked in the first spot out front.” He reached under the desk and produced a pair of keys, which he dangled in front of my face.

  Slowly, I raised my hand, and Bear dropped the keys onto my palm. “Thanks,” I managed. A bright white smile creased Bear’s dark face, and for the first time the intensity of his eyes softened. Okay, maybe softened wasn’t the right word, but he definitely looked less scary.

  “I see why they call you Bear.”

  “Oh, you haven’t seen anything, Alanna Cormac.” His joviality faded for a moment. “You should see me if someone steals my lunch.”

  As he rocked back on his heels, a poster on the wall behind him snagged my attention. Actually, the word Iditarod caught my attention first, sending a little ripple of anticipation through me. On the poster, a man in a dark green snowsuit knelt beside a beautiful Siberian husky. Its bright blue eyes arrowed right through me, sharp and alert. The only thing more beautiful than the dog was the man. His eyes matched the color of his snowsuit, a rich hunter green. Full lips were framed in the hint of a beard, all coppery-colored in the sunlight. At the corner of the poster over a white swath of snow, a scratchy signature read “Dale Ramsden.”

  “One of our finest right there,” Bear said. His voice snapped me out of my trance.

  “That’s him? The Iditarod winner?” Suddenly the lobby was boiling. I unzipped my jacket, pulled off my hat.

  “Yep.” Bear’s laugh made me look at him.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” He shrugged. “You’re just getting drool all over my front desk. That’s all.”

  An instant flush burned my cheeks, and I unraveled my scarf. “I’m not drooling.” Okay, maybe I was.

  “Whatever you say. If you want to see him in person, head over to Ram’s Den. Kid’s father owns it. Best damn chicken wings in town, probably in the whole state. Anyway, Dale is always in there.”

  I was hungry. Was the reason I’d come down to the front desk in the first place. Getting chicken wings was just good sense at this point. No harm in that. A gal needed to eat while she was in Alaska. She didn’t exactly need to meet sexy Iditarod winners, but maybe just a glimpse would be interesting. Meg said I deserved some fun. She could be right.

  “Do you have—”

  “Directions to Ram’s Den?” Bear finished. “Head down the drive, take a left, and follow Main Street. Ram’s Den is about a quarter mile down on your left.”

  I nodded my thanks and turned toward the front doors of the resort.

  “Bon appetit,” Bear called after me.

  Chapter Five

  As I walked toward the Explorer, I inhaled deeply. Amazing how fresh Alaskan air invigorated my senses, my entire body. Take a deep breath like that in NYC, and you’re liable to inhale someone’s cigarette smoke, choke, and die right on the sidewalk.

  I was in a completely different universe, and the pull toward those woods was undeniable. Toward those serene trees, standing in silent watch. I could so get used to assignments like this.

  Shaking my head slightly, I climbed into the SUV and backed out. My ride down the driveway was significantly less bumpy than the cab ride had been, and I now understood the benefit of new shocks. I emerged onto Main Street and was glad I’d asked Bear for directions, because everything looked foreign in the darkness. Traffic was light, and my fingers loosened on the steering wheel. I relaxed into the seat, enjoying the drive, and found myself in front of a rustic looking tavern in no time.

  “Ram’s Den,” I said aloud, reading the sign above the door. “We’ll see how good these chicken wings are.”

  I parked, jumped from the car, and walked up the stone pathway to the front doors. I pulled my ski jacket tighter as a gust of wind punched me. I halted for a moment at the doors and admired the intricate designs carved into the mahogany. A ram’s head with thick, spiraling horns caught my attention. Pockets of ice glistened in the ridges of the horns, and I traced a finger into the carving, marveling at the expertise. Whoever had done the woodwork certainly had an eye for it.

  Another loud plea from my stomach had me pressing my gloved hand against the door until it opened. A warm gush of wood-burning scented air welcomed me, and I thawed a bit. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the lighting, which was several levels brighter than the dim night outside. A long wooden bar, also covered in nature-inspired carvings, spanned the wall to my right, while booths and tables dotted the rest of the room. A large TV displayed a poker competition above the bar, and the muted conversations of several diners in the booths mingled with the TV announcer’s voice.

  I wandered deeper into the tavern—maybe looking for Mr. Iditarod, maybe not—and took a seat at the empty bar. No need to hog a booth or table for a party of one. I was used to that. As I sat, an older gentleman wiped his way toward me. He flung a washcloth to the counter behind him and grinned. Skin crinkled at the corners of his pale blue eyes.

  “Hiya! You’re pretty.”

  I laughed out loud. “That was direct.”

  “When you’re my age, there’s no sense in being indirect, doll. I haven’t got the time to waste.”

  His smile was contagious, and I beamed at him.

  “Dale Ramsden, Sr.” He extended his hand. “People just call me Ram, though.”

  Father of Mr. Iditarod. Interesting. “This would be your den then?” I shook his hand. His grip was solid and…comforting.
r />   “Yep. Been here about thirty years now. Probably die here.” His laugh washed over me, seeped through the hard New York shell somehow. He reminded me of my father.

  “What’s your name, love? I’m completely content to call you honey, sweetheart, or gorgeous, but modern women generally don’t like that.”

  “Alanna Cormac.”

  “Alanna,” he whispered. “A name fit for a goddess.” His eyes lit up under graying brows.

  “You’re pretty smooth, Ram.” Who was I kidding? I was eating this guy up. He was too adorable not to instantly love.

  “Lots of practice, m’lady. Lots of practice.” He pulled a wine glass from the bar behind him and poured red wine into it. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  He placed the glass in front of me, and I looked at it for several moments.

  “How did you know I’d order red wine?”

  Again, his eyes twinkled. “Also lots of practice. Let’s see.” He drummed his long fingers on the bar. “You’re from a big city. You’ve never been to Alaska before. You’re here on business but are not sure you can pull off whatever you’re supposed to do.” He squinted his eyes as if he were concentrating very hard. “You also want to sample my chicken wings.” He stepped away from the bar, leaned on the wall behind him, and folded his arms across his chest.

  “You’re pretty impressed with yourself, aren’t you?” I sipped my wine, relishing the rich, fruity flavor—exactly how I liked my wine.

  “How’d I do?”

  “Hit the nail on the head,” I said, and Ram pumped his fist in the air in victory. “You left out that I work for a nature magazine and will be headed to Denali later in the week. Also, I’ll be ordering dessert after the chicken wings.”

  “Ah, a gal with an appetite.” Ram sighed as he took my hand in his. “Marry me, Alanna.”

  I giggled like a schoolgirl and fluttered my lashes foolishly. What in the hell was I doing? Another older man emerged from what I assumed to be the kitchen and rolled his eyes.

  “Proposed to another one, didn’t you, Ram?”

  “Yep. And I think this one might say yes.” Ram winked at me. “This is my brother, Jerry. Jerry, Alanna Cormac. Or the future Mrs. Dale Ramsden, as I like to refer to her.”

  “You’re going to need a bigger house for all those future Mrs. Dale Ramsdens, brother.” Jerry shook my hand. He looked like Ram but skinnier and slightly older.

  “Just like my jealous brother to try to sabotage my chances with you,” Ram said, looking at me with raised eyebrows.

  “Time is sabotaging your chances with her, Ram. You’re too old.” Jerry punched his brother in the arm. A mock frown barely made its way across his face, and he shrugged.

  “Too bad, Alanna. I guess we’ll just have to be friends.” Ram kissed the back of my hand.

  “I’d love to be friends, Ram, but I’m only here for two weeks. I hope that’s okay.”

  Ram held his hand over his heart. “Shall have to be enough.”

  “Enough with the dramatics,” Jerry said. “Get the girl some chicken wings. She’s starving.”

  “Yes, indeed. Chicken wings coming right up.” Ram disappeared into the kitchen.

  “He didn’t bother you, did he?” Jerry asked.

  “Not at all. He’s charming.” I had shed my coat during Ram’s silliness, and a toasty warmth—a long-forgotten warmth—either from the wine or Ram’s attention, filled me.

  “Charming,” Jerry mumbled as he, too, vanished into the kitchen.

  I swiveled on the bar stool to get another look at the tavern while I waited. No sign of sled racing stud, which was fine. I was here for a meal, not a man. A family of four, a man and woman with two small boys, took up a table in the center of the room. I chuckled to myself as the mother made airplane noises and arrowed a glob of mashed potatoes toward the boy beside her. He squirmed in his seat, avoiding her assault.

  In a booth, along the far wall, two teens studied each other over a heaping plate of nachos. The boy’s feet were wrapped around the girl’s under the table. Their happiness lit up the tavern. Young love. Hope it lasted for them.

  In the booth behind the teens, three elderly women with puffy, round bubbles of white hair chatted loudly while they passed craft magazines around to one another over coffee. I sincerely hoped that wouldn’t be what Meg and I did to entertain ourselves when we were that age.

  A man and a little girl occupied another booth by the front window of the tavern. The little girl, two long braids weaving down either side of her head, knelt and pressed her palms against the window. When her father told her to sit and finish her meal, two small, greasy handprints dotted the glass. The man sighed and rubbed at the prints with his napkin.

  My gaze roamed to the last booth in the back corner of the bar. The person seated there faced away from me. The top of a dark baseball cap showed while a hand drummed fingers on a tall beer. A pad and a pen were next to the beer.

  Another writer, perhaps? I was about to slide off the stool and investigate further when Ram’s voice had me spinning my seat around to face him.

  “All righty. I hope these pass the test. You came all the way from…” He looked at me expectantly while he balanced the plate of wings in his hands.

  “New York.”

  He nodded. “You came all the way from New York to try these wings, and here they are. Ta-da!” Ram proudly set the platter in front of me. Jerry appeared behind him with a salad and a basket of fries.

  “These smell wonderful.” I unfolded my napkin and placed it on my lap.

  “Work of art there, Alanna.” Ram topped off my wine glass.

  Both he and Jerry lingered around the bar, waiting for me to eat. I hesitated under their scrutiny, but was way too starved to worry about it. Gingerly, I picked up one of the wings. Extra barbecue sauce dripped back onto the plate. I took my first bite, and my taste buds applauded. Smoked hickory flavor mixed with something a little citrusy, and the meat released its hold on the bone with little effort. I finished off an entire wing before I could speak.

  “Okay, Ram.” I wiped my fingers on the napkin. “These are worth the long trip from New York.”

  Ram let out a roar of laughter.

  “Another satisfied customer,” Jerry said as he came around the bar to tend to the other diners.

  “We aim to please,” Ram said.

  “Mmmm,” I mumbled as I dove into another wing. Ram sat on a stool on his side of the bar and poured himself a soda.

  “So what’s the name of the magazine you work for?” he asked.

  “Gaia.” I was in chicken-wing heaven. No question about it. Ram had a gift.

  “How long have you been working for Gaia?”

  “Six years.” I licked sauce from my index finger, completely forgetting I was in public.

  “Making a name for yourself with this Denali piece?”

  “I’m going to try.” I stopped eating for a moment and met Ram’s eyes.

  “Determined, aren’t ya?”

  “Got to be. I ain’t getting any younger, Ram.”

  “None of us are.” He took a long swig of his soda and when his eyes settled back on me, he appeared to be…pondering. “You got somebody back home?”

  I shook my head.

  “What a shame for the New York fellows. None of them suit you?”

  I dabbed a fry into a small pool of leftover barbecue sauce and swirled it around my plate. A slow burn ignited in my chest. How strange to want to talk about my love life—or lack thereof—with this complete stranger over chicken wings. My eyes flitted around the tavern, looking for what exactly I don’t know.

  “Some of them suited me…for a little while anyway,” I said, “but it always works out the same way. I’m a loner, I guess. My work is my life. I don’t have time for anything else.”

  Ram’s facial expression changed. The creases around his eyes disappeared as he closed his hand over mine.

  “You just haven’t found someone you want to make
time for,” Ram said softly. He pointed to a picture encircled by a wooden frame hanging on the wall behind him. An older woman with a thick mane of red-brown hair and piercing green eyes smiled back at me. “My Diana, God rest her, died eight years ago. She was worth every moment I spent with her.”

  He shook his head again and slid from the stool. Walking around to my side, he threw an arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “I know we just met and all, but you look like you need a hug.”

  I couldn’t stop the tear that trickled down my cheek. Ram reached over the bar and grabbed extra napkins. He handed them to me, and I blotted my eyes. How embarrassing, crying like that in front of someone I’d just met. And over the fact that I was lonely no less. Stupid.

  “Sorry. I don’t know what happened here,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” Ram scooted back around the bar. “Alaska’s not all ice and wind. Some of it’s warm and fuzzy.” He grabbed his washcloth and wiped the counter absently. He drew in a deep breath and said, “How about that dessert?”

  I nodded. “That would be great.”

  He collected my empty plate. “Do you want to see a dessert menu?”

  “No. I’ll bet you can pick something I’ll like,” I said, and his face turned jovial again.

  “Be right back.” He bounded into the kitchen.

  I composed myself, shaking my head at my blubbering. Twenty minutes in this bar, and I was ungluing at the seams. I’d finish my dessert and get the hell out before I told Ram my entire life story over coffee.

  I swiveled again to observe behind me. The same crowd was still assembled, finishing their meals and visits. A few newcomers had filtered in—again none of them sled-dog16. I couldn’t tell if I was relieved or disappointed. My emotions were a jumbled mess at the moment. I didn’t like that. I needed Meg.

  The baseball cap in the corner was gone, along with his pad and pencil. Probably scooted out when I was hugging the freaking bartender.

  A surge of cold air made me turn toward the front door. The sound of boots stomping snow from their heels had me waiting to see who the next visitor was in this tavern of holy chicken wings and empathetic hugs. When he stepped from the shadows, something fluttered deep inside me.