Running Wild(Wild #3)(10)

I brace myself for Tyler’s claims that she’s fine, well cared for. For us to mind our own goddamn business and get off his property.

He reaches up to tug off his goggles and balaclava, revealing a stony expression.

Despite my anger, my breath hitches. If I didn’t want this guy arrested and thrown in jail—and fined so severely that his bank accounts are empty for the next ten years after he gets out—I would consider him attractive. He must be around my age—midthirties—with a full head of dark ash-brown hair and a few days of scruff coating a face cut in sharp angles.

He turns to Reed. “You okay? They didn’t give you a hard time?”

“Yes. I mean, no, they weren’t too bad,” he stumbles over his words.

“Why don’t you head back to the barn and take care of the pups. I got this.” Tyler’s voice is decidedly softer while addressing him.

Reed rushes to the red building as if he can’t get away fast enough, calling to the dogs to follow. All trot after him except for the curly-tailed Laika, who seems more interested in us.

Tyler sighs heavily. “Let me guess, Harry Hatchett’s the one who brought her in and told you she was mine.”

“Does it matter?” I ask.

Piercing hazel eyes shift to study me. “One of my main competitors for a race with a half-million-dollar purse is trying to paint me an animal abuser so I get disqualified.” A sardonic smile twists his lips. “Yeah, I’d say that matters, wouldn’t you?”

“No one does the Iditarod for the money.” And no one person gets that whole amount. Unless you slide in with a first-place finish—which most don’t expect to have a chance at—you’re losing money the second you sign up.

“Harry seems like the type to have money on his mind,” he counters.

“Maybe he does,” I acknowledge. He has bills to pay and an assumed reputation to bolster with trophies. Being rid of Tyler would even the odds for him. “It doesn’t matter. What I care about is that dog in the back of our truck, and I’ve treated enough animals to know neglect when I see it.” It feels like a knife wound to my chest every time.

“You automatically assumed I did that to her. You look around at this place, at my other dogs”—he gestures at his dog, with its lush fur coat and solid frame—“and you can’t think of another reasonable explanation?”

“Do you have one for us?” Howie prompts.

Tyler peers off into the distance, as if weighing what he wants to admit. His hair is mussed from the balaclava, standing on end in every direction. “You’re right. She has been neglected, by whomever owned her before I found her wandering in the woods.”

Howie and I share a glance.

“So, now she’s not your dog?” I press, my voice heavy with doubt.

“She wasn’t, up until yesterday morning.” He yanks off his leather mittens. “But she’s my dog now, because there’s no way in hell she’s going back to the asshole who did that to her.”

My mouth hangs open a beat, caught off guard by the venom in his response.

He takes a deep breath as if to calm himself. “I tried to get some food and water into her, kept her in my house last night because she’s too weak to be in the barn with the other dogs. We thought she would settle here. She seemed comfortable enough.” He smooths a palm through his hair, as if trying to tame it. “And then Reed let her out this morning, and she took off. I knew she wouldn’t survive another night out there, so I went looking for her. I followed her tracks all the way to the Hatchetts’ fence.”

I steal another glance at Howie. Is Tyler telling the truth, or is this a cover to save his own skin?

Howie gives me a one-shouldered shrug and a look that says he’s inclined to believe Tyler’s story of rescue.

Given the shape of the other dogs I’ve seen so far, I’m leaning toward the former as well. It wouldn’t be unheard of for someone to abandon an old dog that is no longer of use to them. Hell, people are vile enough to toss puppies into garbage bags. “She needs medical attention.”

“I’m aware of that—”

“I’ve started running tests already, but she’s going to need dental work and a special diet—”

“Sounds expensive.” Tyler smirks. “Have you tallied all that up yet? Got the invoice for me ready?”

I falter, taken aback by his insinuation. “This isn’t about me making money. It’s about what she needs.”

The grim amusement slides from his face. “I’m taking her to see Frank Hartley in Palmer first thing tomorrow morning. He’ll tell me what she needs.”

I can’t help the snort that escapes. “And you’re accusing me of seeing dollar signs.” Frank is a money-hungry ass who runs unnecessary tests to pad his billables and has misdiagnosed more than one animal.

“Hartley’s my veterinarian. He’s already treated the whole kennel, and at a better rate than I was quoted by others. Seems like a decent enough guy.”

The only reason Frank might have given Tyler a deal is because he wants his clinic’s name tied to a champion musher. Secondhand notoriety.

Tyler studies me a long moment before shifting his attention to Howie. “You can follow up with him if you want, but I promise, she’ll get the care she needs from a vet who isn’t on Hatchett’s payroll.”