Running Wild(Wild #3)(26)

“Get Monica out here!” someone calls as volunteers charge forward, followed closely by the photographer and news reporter.

Within moments, the checkpoint race judge is charging out of the cabin, tugging on a hat over her graying hair and wiping a palm against her mouth to catch any residual chili. “What happened?” She inspects Larry with a worried frown.

“I’m not sure. I heard the dogs and saw a faint light, way off the path. Looks like he took a bad spill in the gorge. I found him unconscious, with his dogs tangled up in a fallen tree,” Tyler explains, pausing long enough to scowl at the photographer who just blinded him with a flash. “He came to shortly after I arrived, so I got him up and his dogs unraveled. He didn’t want to call in for help, so I hung back to make sure he got here okay.”

Because activating his emergency transmitter for help would mean an automatic withdrawal from the race.

Larry may be conscious now, but he doesn’t seem completely aware of his surroundings, squinting against the spotlights. Still, he tries to wave it off. “I’ll be fine. I just need a few hours to regroup.” He steps off his sled and his legs wobble, forcing Monica and Tyler to dive for him.

I’ve seen mushers roll through checkpoints with scrapes and bruises. I’ve heard stories of veterinarians stitching up gashes for them on their way through. After months of training and thousands of dollars to keep a team, no one wants to withdraw from the race. But it doesn’t take a doctor to see that Larry knocked his head hard in that fall, and likely has a concussion on top of whatever else. Plus, his sled is mangled, beyond a quick patch job.

If Larry’s not smart enough to make the right call to scratch, Monica had better withdraw him.

In all the commotion, I hear myself ask, “What about the dogs?”

Tyler’s head snaps to me, and he falters, as if shocked to see me there. He shouldn’t be; he knows I volunteer on the trail.

“Did you notice if any of them were hurt?” I didn’t get a good look at them running in.

“One of the wheel dog’s hind legs is bothering her. The one on the left. But otherwise, they’re all fine. I’ve already checked.”

I’ll be the judge of that.

As the others deal with Larry, I head straight for the dog in question, a beautiful blue-eyed husky with deep caramel markings. A quick examination tells me she’s not cut by branches or ice, but she has injured her hind leg. No matter what’s decided, she’s gone as far as she can go in this race.

I shift to the other wheel dog for an inspection, earning a lick against my cheek for the attention. From there, I slowly move through each dog, who seem in fine spirits despite their ordeal.

“An Iditarod rookie, and you’re already playing Good Samaritan,” Terry declares, his booming voice dividing my attention from my task.

Tyler has left Larry to the others and is now tending to his team, handing Terry his dog diary. “I’m just glad I was there to help.” He pushes back the hood of his red musher’s down jacket, revealing a black knit cap that hugs his head and shows off his pleasing side profile.

A visceral reaction—that same instant admiration for a handsome face that sparked when I first met him—stirs in my stomach. It’s quickly quelled by the reminder of his abrasive personality. But he can’t be all bad. If Larry was as far off the marked trail as Tyler claims, he could have claimed to not see him and sped past. Not that I know a single musher—including Skip—who would consider doing something so callous. Still …

“He wouldn’t be the first one. That stretch can be a nightmare. Claimed more than one musher’s hopes over the years.” Terry reviews the notes with an intense frown. “Your dogs sure looked real good coming in, though.”

“As they should. They’re the best team here, and they’ve been training hard.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes at his arrogance.

“They all run in the Finnmark race with you?”

“All of them.” Tyler yanks off his gloves and leans down to massage one of the wheel dog’s front legs.

I note the various badges sewn into his sleeve. A common practice for both mushers and volunteers who don the various emblems to highlight previous races they’ve participated in, clubs they belong to, their kennel, even sponsors. A black-and-white patch that’s larger than the others sits prominently on his shoulder, of a musher’s sled and the words “Team Mila” below it.

“How is she?”

I realize Tyler’s talking to me. Even in the dim night with nothing but the overhead spotlight, I can make out the pretty hazel of his irises.

He must be asking about the injured wheel dog. I find my voice quickly. “Likely a sprain. She’ll heal, but she’s done for this race. The rest of them look okay so far.” I offer a head scratch to the mottled beige husky I’m inspecting.

He shifts his quiet focus back to his own dogs, murmuring softly to each.

The reporter comes around to ask a few questions about Larry’s accident, which will surely front all the Iditarod-related news tomorrow, but Tyler dismisses him after ten seconds, claiming he needs to focus on his dogs.

“You’re a bit of a mystery around here,” Terry says, shifting from dog to dog.

Tyler chuckles. It’s a deep, unexpectedly pleasant sound. “I’m not very interesting, and I’ve never been one for cameras. I like to keep to myself.”