Running Wild(Wild #3)(25)

“Any concerns?” I quickly scan the notes from the veterinarians at the previous stops.

“Nope.” Harry punctuates that with a head shake. “They’re running like a well-oiled machine.”

“Good.” And, unlike Skip, I know Harry will be watching his team intently. I’ve had to put down dogs for him before. He’s held their head and cried every time. For all Harry’s faults and ways in which he annoys me, I will be the first to defend his love for his dogs.

I nod toward the safety cabin. “Keenan’s got a pot of his moose chili on the stove.”

“Nah. Wanna put some more distance between me and the others.” His gaze flitters toward Skip before he looks over his shoulder, down the trail. “Saw someone not too far back but couldn’t tell who it was. Hopefully not that asshole Brady.”

Harry was not happy when he called for an update on Nymeria and I explained the situation. He was clearly pinning his hopes on a different outcome. “You really that worried about a rookie?”

“No,” he scoffs. “This is my fifth time running this race. I’m gonna win this year, you watch.” He pulls a pack of frozen salmon from his sled and doles out a snack to each dog. “I don’t get why everyone’s making such a big deal about him, anyway. His dogs are nothin’ special. I’ll bet he’s getting a rude awakening about what Alaska’s really like, after coming here and thinking he’s hot shit.”

He’s not the only one who thinks he’s hot shit. Harry’s used to having more than his share of the spotlight—being a Hatchett, being so young. He doesn’t like that there’s someone else who might be getting more attention. “Forget about your neighbor and take care of your dogs.”

“I always take care of them.” He rubs Comet’s hind leg, the one that has caused her issues in the past. “You got my back for the Leonhard Seppala, right?”

I stumble on a suitable response. It’s the most prestigious award, next to winning the race. What is he asking me to do?

“Relax, I’m just kidding.” He smiles coyly—as if that could win me over. “You done after this stop?”

“No, they need me in Cripple next.”

“Perfect.” He drops his voice and looks around. “I’m doing my big rest there.”

The mushers keep their game plan close to their chest while race fans spend countless hours speculating on where they’ll rest based on the supply drops at the various checkpoints and previous race plans. Stopping in Cripple means he’s pushing on past McGrath and Takotna, where most mushers take their required twenty-four-hour stop.

Twenty-four hours dealing with Harry Hatchett? Not perfect.

“You’re going for the gold, huh?” The first musher to the checkpoint gets $3000 in nuggets, in honor of the old gold rush town. One of many baiting prizes along the trail.

“’Course I am. I need everything I can get. Running this kennel is … expensive.”

It seems he was going to say something else—hard? Impossible?—but decided against it. Would admitting either of those things feel like failure to him?

My dad and I have both often wondered what the Hatchetts’ financial situation looks like now that Earl is gone, how they’re managing. Harry’s coat still wears the embroidered stitching of his sponsor—a construction equipment supply company that has operated in Alaska for decades and was willing to support the sport when Earl was alive. Are they as willing now?

This is the part of this race—and this industry—that raises alarms in me. Harry may care deeply about his dogs, but when prize money and prestige dangles ahead and financial burdens weigh on his shoulders, will his ego let him make the right choices? That, I’m not so sure. “Don’t push the dogs too hard.”

His expression turns sour with annoyance. “How about I leave the vet stuff to you, and you leave the racing stuff to me, ’kay?”

I force a polite smile.

Ten minutes later, I’m happy to be watching the back of Harry’s navy parka vanish into the night, the dogs barking excitedly as they pursue Skip’s team.

From there, three more teams arrive in tight succession, keeping the Rohn crew busy as we do our best to welcome and care for each. Not all mushers are in a rush to keep going after such an arduous trek through the pass. A couple spread straw for their dogs to rest and retrieve the drop bags that hold snacks and meals, gabbing and laughing with volunteers who mill around, helping where needed.

Two hours later during a lull, Keenan bellows, “Two coming in!” followed by a perplexed, “What in Sam Hell?”

I navigate around piles of dog poop to join in his watch. Ahead of us, two head lamps approach, moving slower than the usual six to seven miles per hour, one after another, the musher in front turning back frequently to check over their shoulder.

They’re twenty feet out when I realize one of them is Tyler. I recognize his jawline, covered in a short layer of scruff and set with grim determination.

He eases his team to a halt before dropping the snow hook to keep them in place and hopping off his sled. “We need help over here!” he hollers, guiding the team behind him in with a soft whoa.

The other musher is hunched over the front of his mangled sled, blood trickling down his forehead. It’s Larry Reese, a veteran racer and another contender to win, having placed in the top ten a handful of times.