Running Wild(Wild #3)(37)

I keep chewing, hoping my flushed cheeks aren’t too obvious.

“Yeah, I’ll bet a warm tent is better than a bale of straw out in the snow.” Gary sets the empty pot back on the machine.

“You empty it, you brew it!” Karen chirps, not even turning from her griddle.

“Jeez, you got eyes on the back of your head, woman?”

She responds with a raucous cackle. “Sure do. And that thing takes twenty minutes, so you better get started.”

Gary smooths fingers over his graying mustache while he studies the machine, a perplexed frown on his face as he lifts a flap and tests a few buttons. “This is different from mine.”

“Here. I got it.” Tyler shifts past me, his hand brushing my thigh in the process—whether by accident or intentionally, I can’t tell—and sets his plate down to free his hands.

Another plus for Tyler: Doesn’t balk at stepping in where needed, even for something as trivial as making coffee. My brother-in-law Jim would not have budged.

The list of appealing qualities grows.

Saves neglected animals, check.

Helps injured people, check.

Incredible kisser, even while unconscious. Check, check.

Gary moves out of the way to watch Tyler measure the grinds. “You got some good-lookin’ dogs there.”

“Thank you,” Tyler says smoothly. “They come from strong lines of distance runners.” A practiced response that he’s probably given countless times.

“Oh, no doubt! Winning that big Finnish race, now makin’ good time in the Iditarod as a rookie. There’s talk you might win this. Wouldn’t that be something? It’s been decades since a rookie won.” Gary’s voice brims with approval. “You planning on breeding any of those dogs for sale? ’Cause I know of a few people already askin’.”

“I’m considering it. To the right people.” Tyler sets the brewer, collects his plate, and shifts back to his spot beside me.

Gary’s momentarily distracted by a question from the other volunteer, and I’m guessing that’s fine with Tyler because he doesn’t seem overly interested in continuing that conversation.

I’ve finally swallowed my pancakes. “I didn’t think you were serious about breeding them.” I thought he said that in a moment of spite.

“I wasn’t. But I also was.” He carves into his sausage link. “The idea’s growing on me.”

“Hey, you’re out near Fishhook, aren’t you?” Gary suddenly asks. “Near the Hatchetts?”

“Right beside them,” Tyler confirms, his tone flat as he mumbles, “unfortunately.”

I give him a gentle elbow followed by a warning look. “Behave,” I whisper. Gary’s wife and Bonnie volunteer together at the Trapper’s Crossing Christmas party and talk often.

His heated gaze flitters to my lips before it flips back. “Or what?”

My mouth goes dry as I search for a suitable answer.

“Well then, you best be careful with those dogs of yours. There’s a thief in your area.”

Gary’s caution grabs my attention. “What do you mean? Someone’s stealing sled dogs?”

“I guess you didn’t hear the crazy story Jody Snyder was tellin’ back at the hotel during registration.” Gary dumps Coffee-Mate to his cup and stirs. “His uncle had a dog stolen right out of his kennel.”

“Jody Snyder.” That name rings a bell. “His uncle is Zed Snyder.” A two-time Iditarod champion and well known in the community. Last I heard, he’d retired from racing and was doing tourist excursions.

“That’s the one.”

Beside me, Tyler chews quietly, seemingly indifferent to this concerning story.

“What happened?”

“Well, accordin’ to Jody, Zed fed ’em their evenin’ meal and they were all there when he went to bed. The next morning, he was short one.”

“Maybe it broke off its chain?”

“No, ma’am. The chain was fine. The collar was hangin’ off it, as if she slipped out. And the door to the enclosure was sittin’ open to make it look like Zed forgot to close it, but he says he didn’t forget to close that door. It looked like someone tried to cover their tracks, scrapin’ their boot prints out of the snow with a shovel. But the trail led up to her house. He swears someone came right in and took her.”

This is troubling. “Why her?”

“Not sure. She was up there in years, but she’s produced some nice racers. Tom Scalding and Kerry Rice both have sled dogs from Zed.”

I know both mushers. They’ve finished in the top ten in the Iditarod previously.

“She was a pup from one of Zed’s favorite lead dogs. A pretty blonde with one blue eye and one brown.”

An eerie prickle of familiarity trickles down my spine.

Beside me, Tyler shifts in his boots.

“Where’d you say Zed lives again?”

“Out his way—” He juts his chin toward Tyler, who seems intently focused on his plate of food. “Near Fishhook, on the Wasilla side.”

I concentrate on my breathing as I process this information. If Nymeria is the dog they’re talking about, that means Zed Snyder, a world-class musher back in the day, did that to her.