Running Wild(Wild #3)(17)

“What about Cook?” Oliver chirps from the kitchen sink where he’s already scrubbing a dirty pot.

“Who, Steve Cook? Your boss?” Vicki’s face scrunches up. “Isn’t he living with someone?”

“Nah, they broke up. He’s single again. I think he’s, like, forty-two? Maybe forty-four?”

“Oh.” Vicki ponders that a second and then shrugs as if to say, Why not? “Yeah, you should try Steve.”

As if he were a pair of socks to test out.

Being the perpetually single Lehr sister—and the oldest, at that—for the past few years, I’m used to this. Every family dinner inevitably veers to the topic of my love life … or lack thereof. It’s usually Jim throwing out single friends’ names, though. Oliver must feel like he has to fill the void.

I tap my foot beneath the table as I finish off the last of my beer. Are all families like this or just mine?

“Anything exciting happen at work this week?” My dad changes the topic, saving me from more matchmaking.

“Not until today. You almost had another dog.”

“Don’t you dare bring any more animals into this house!” Mom protests, collecting the last of the dirty dishes before heading to the dishwasher, pausing long enough to toss scraps of meat to Yukon’s and Bentley’s waiting maws. “I thought I was done running a rescue house when your father retired.”

Dad and I share an amused look. All three dogs currently living under this roof are here because Mom offered to foster them and then wouldn’t give them up.

“And what was this one’s story?” he asks.

“On that note …” Vicki eases out of her seat to waddle toward the living room. Though she can’t resist a box of kittens, she was never bitten by the veterinarian bug and finds our chatter “depressing.”

Dad collects a toothpick and leans back in his chair, readying to hear my tale. By the time I’m done recounting Harry’s visit and everything that followed, including the accusations Tyler made about my motivations, Dad’s expression has soured. “Sounds like a real son of a—”

“Dad.” Liz gives a pointed look toward the girls, but their focus is riveted on the heaping brownie sundaes in front of them.

He offers a sheepish smile. “Is this new guy breedin’ those dogs he brought over with him?”

“That’s the thing.” I repeat what Tyler claims Harry did. “He made it sound like he will, just to spite the Hatchetts.”

Dad whistles. “Sometimes that family leans too much on their history around here. Things have changed, especially with Earl gone. It was foolish of Harry, trying to tell this man what he can and can’t do. Then again, Harry’s always been a fool.”

“Especially a guy like this one.” Who doesn’t seem like he’d back down from a fight. “Just wait until people around here see those dogs race. I’m telling you, Dad, they are impressive. The way they ran in formation, untethered?” I understand why Harry, a competitive guy by nature, would be nervous. Keeping a sled team is costly—thousands of dollars spent a year on a balanced diet of kibble, meat, and fish, housing them against the elements, outfitting them to race, bringing in veterinarian care for the revolving door of issues that arise from all those dogs together. It’s not unusual for a musher to spend thirty grand a year to prepare a team, and that’s not even considering the race fees, which are in the thousands themselves.

The Hatchetts pay for it by relying on sponsors, hosting tourist tours during the off-season, leasing dogs, and by breeding champion sled dogs for mushers. It’s an art form of sorts, pairing the right mix for speed, endurance, and attitude. Earl had a knack for it, his lines producing competent racers time and time again.

There have been plenty of doubts about Harry’s skills.

“So he thinks he’s gonna give Harry a run for his money at the race, huh? As a rookie in the Iditarod.” Dad’s skepticism is obvious.

“I don’t know, but he certainly thinks highly of himself.”

“Part of me would like to see that kid’s ego get knocked down a few pegs. He needs that before he loses whatever good grace being Earl’s son has afforded him. But the Hatchetts are also good for the sport. The fans really like them.”

Harry’s considered a local celebrity and media darling. He’s young, he never balks at giving an interview, and he has a face that female race fans flock to. But these fans haven’t met Tyler yet. What’s he like when he’s not being accused of abusing dogs? Does he have what it takes to charm the crowds?

Will they react to that ruggedly handsome face the same way I did?

Liz sets a bowl in front of Dad.

He examines the brownie suspiciously. “Has the warden approved?”

“Yes, it’s Liz’s special recipe.” Mom emphasizes special with a stare, which means it’s made with beets or cannellini beans or something equally unappetizing that the children are oblivious to and that won’t spike Dad’s blood sugar levels.

He hasn’t been able to eat a meal without Mom’s approval since his diagnosis. Fortunately for him, Liz can make even vegetable-laced brownies taste good, something we all appreciate.

The usual family dinner chatter takes over while we clean up. Then Liz bundles the girls to get them home for bath and bedtime and Vicki moans about her aching back as Oliver helps her pull her coat on.