Running Wild(Wild #3)(34)

I shift out of his way, collecting my coffee from its perch on his sled. “I’m sure it’s an experience.” My attention wanders over the frozen tundra before us. I can’t see much in the dark, but I’ve seen it in the daylight, and I know there’s a whole lot of nothing between us and any other living person.

“Come out with me when I train for next year’s race, so you can see what I mean.”

“You haven’t even finished this race, and you’re already planning the next one?”

“As long as this team wants to run, I’ll keep them running.” He pats each dog’s head as they dive into their meals.

“I’ll think about it.”

“I hope you do. My runs aren’t short, like Harry’s, though. I go all night.”

I wasn’t expecting that, and I choke on my coffee, coughing and sputtering.

My shocked reaction earns a chuckle from Tyler as he leans down to shift two bowls apart, separating the dogs. He meant exactly what his words imply, and I’m not sure we’re talking about him hiring me as his veterinarian anymore.

Blood rushes with the knowledge that this exploding attraction isn’t one-sided, not in the least. Whoever would’ve thought the angry, spiteful man I met in January would end up being someone I might be attracted to?

Definitely not me.

The sky is murky with predawn light when bundled bodies begin emerging from tents with more frequency, some heading to the outhouse, others to the hut, where a hearty plume of smoke billows from the pipe. Tyler’s team will be ready to settle into another long stretch of sleep when they’re done eating.

And I’ve lingered around one musher’s team for too long to not stir a few whispers, if anyone’s paying attention. Thankfully, Harry must still be asleep. I’ll have to deal with him at some point, but I’ll happily avoid him for as long as possible.

I brush off the snowflakes falling from my forehead. “They’ll have a stack of pancakes ready in there, if you’re hungry.” While the mushers all have a supply of vacuum-sealed pizza and burritos in their drop bags to sustain them, checkpoint volunteers like Karen take pride in offering a hot meal.

“Starving.” Tyler kneels in the snow, investigating his runners. Deciding what needs fixing later, after the dogs wake up from their second sleep. If these mushers aren’t fussing over their dogs or catching up on rest, they’re tinkering with their sleds. Some send an entire new one to a checkpoint ahead of time so they can swap out. “I’ll be there in ten. Save me a few?” He caps that off with a wink.

“You’ll be fine. Karen rations.” I catch myself smiling as I head for the hut, my heart and mood light despite my frozen cheeks and rumbling belly, and I know that grin is one hundred percent because of the rookie musher from Whitefish, Montana, by way of Finland.

On my way, I slow to scan Harry’s team without getting too close to disturb them. They’re asleep on their straw beds, banks of snow beside them to cut the wind and jackets to keep them insulated. All sleep soundly, their noses tucked beneath their tails.

I still remember first learning about sled dogs sleeping out in the cold. It was at the Hatchett Kennels and I was seven. Earl Hatchett was three weeks out from the Iditarod and doing overnight training runs to get his team up to top condition, camping in the woods. I couldn’t comprehend how any living thing could withstand minus-twenty-degree temperatures. Iggie, a pointer my father had rescued, spent his evenings sprawled on the kitchen floor by the woodstove, waiting for scraps. He’d be shaking within five minutes of stepping outside.

Earl being Earl, he was happy for any opportunity to educate how sled dogs are different from other dogs, how they not only tolerate the cooler temperatures better thanks to two layers of fur, but they also prefer it.

I had a tough time buying into his sermon, but in the years since I became a veterinarian and volunteered for this race, I’ve seen the truth in his words. With their heavy winter coats, spending too long indoors makes them uncomfortable. When allowed inside, it’s not uncommon for these dogs to pace by their owner’s door, panting, asking to be let out to cool off. Iditarod races during mild winters—still cold by human standards—see mushers forced to rest their teams for long stretches during the day and a record number of dropped dogs due to overheating.

Only when I confirm no signs of discomfort in the dogs—shivering or ice on their coats—do I feel comfortable moving on.

Lynn Corball, a musher from Seward who came in while I was sleeping, nods in greeting as she ladles broth into a dog dish. Rick said she checked in three hours ago. She should have her dogs sorted and be resting herself by now.

As if she can read my mind, she laments, “He didn’t eat much earlier.” She throws a flat look toward her sable-colored lead dog, who waits eagerly, his tail swishing. The other dogs are curled up on their straw beds but watching their musher intently.

I offer her a sympathetic smile. “At least he looks hungry now.” Otherwise, as a veterinarian, I’d be concerned.

“You gave him too many snacks on the way in!” Harry calls out behind me, appearing from the shadows. His boots crunch in the snow, a hot coffee in hand. “Now you’re gonna have a tough time settling them down again if you don’t feed them all.”

At that moment, Harry sounds like Earl. But, unlike Harry, Earl knew when not to share his wisdom.