Teri Wilson - Alaskan Hearts

“Oh, yeah.” Reggie wore mukluks, the traditional winter moccasins common to those living in the bush. For as long as Ben had known Reggie, he’d made his home in the remote village of Prospect. Reggie enjoyed living in the bush, away from the road network. “Off the grid,” as he called it. Ben’s cabin in the woods seemed cosmopolitan by comparison, even with its long-abandoned doghouses dotting the landscape.

Reggie let out a hearty laugh. “I saw your name tag over at the registration desk and wondered when you’d be rolling in. There’s just one problem—that tag still says Media after your name.”

Ben’s jaw clenched, and a familiar throbbing flared in his temples. “Don’t start.”

“It’s a shame to let that nice dog yard out at your place sit empty. That’s all.” Reggie crossed his arms, leaned closer and lowered his voice. Ben noticed his beard had grown a shade or two closer to silver since last year’s Gold Rush Trail. “How many years has it been, friend?”

“You were the one who packed away all my sledding equipment, remember? You know exactly how many years it’s been.”

Four.

The number hung, unspoken, in the awkward space between them.

Four years, five…ten. Ben knew without a doubt the passing of time would in no way dim the memory of the land surrounding his cabin, once scattered with sledding equipment. A sled here, a cabled line there. After the accident that had ended his mushing career, Ben couldn’t bring himself to touch any of it. He was afraid of his own muscle memory—that the drive bow would still feel comfortable in his hands. He’d let the snow cover it all, inch by inch, day by day, until it became nothing more than a series of mysterious white mounds. Then one day, he’d come home from work and they were gone. His yard was flat, smooth and white as a snow-covered sea of ice. Ben had been almost afraid to walk on it. He’d sat in his car and stared at his property—an unnatural blank slate—until darkness hovered on the horizon.

He’d found his equipment cleaned, polished and carefully stacked in the shed out back. Reggie’s work to be sure, although he’d never admitted as much. Ben had taken one look, locked the door to the storage shed and never opened it again.

Now he massaged his forehead with his thumb and index finger. It made no difference. The throbbing only intensified. A war was being waged in his head, full of long-forgotten memories of the trail fighting to make themselves known. “Kodiak is the only dog I need these days.”

Reggie’s nostrils flared as he blew out a frustrated puff of breath. Let him be frustrated. Reggie could join the long list of people, led by Ben’s very own father, who were all frustrated with him. Ben couldn’t care less. “Where did that monster run off to anyway?”

At that precise moment, Kodiak’s deep bark echoed off the wood-paneled walls, followed by a distinctly feminine squeal.

“That didn’t sound good.” Despite his ominous declaration, Reggie chuckled.

“Kodiak!” Ben called.

By now, the barking had grown louder. Ben followed the sound to the crowd of people waiting at the registration desk, in the shadow of the outstretched paws of the rampant polar bear.

The group parted like the Red Sea as he approached, revealing a woman with thick waves of blond hair standing alone, frozen to the spot.

Her. Ben’s heart leaped with recognition.

Despite the way the color was draining from her face with alarming speed, she possessed a sort of innocent beauty. That, coupled with her mass of platinum curls, gave her the air and grace of a princess.

A princess who looked woefully out of place in Alaska.

Ben tore his gaze from her delicate face and took notice of the small pink suitcase at her feet, which for some reason rendered Kodiak spellbound.

The suitcase yipped. Kodiak yipped right back at it.

“Kodiak, no.” Ben stepped forward and picked up the leash, which was dragging on the floor behind the husky.

The suitcase yipped again. Kodiak whined, craned his neck toward the mysterious bag and swept Ben’s foot with his wagging tail.

With Kodiak safely restrained, the color returned to the woman’s face in the form of a scarlet flush. It settled in the vicinity of her exquisite cheekbones.

“You.” She scooped the pink bag off the floor and hugged it to her chest.

“I’m sorry if he frightened you.” Ben ruffled the fur on the scruff of Kodiak’s neck. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly. He just likes to make noise.”

“I’m not scared.”

Clearly a bald-faced lie. She couldn’t have looked more terrified if the stuffed polar bear suddenly sprang to life and romped around the lobby. “All the same, I apologize.”

“Apology accepted.” Her reddened cheeks faded to a soft pink, the exact shade of her barking bag. And her fuzzy sweater. And those ridiculous shoes, which resembled some sort of sheepskin bedroom slippers. If sheep were pink.

Ben pointed to the bag. “What have you got in there? Whatever it is, my dog finds it fascinating.”

She smiled and gave the bag a little squeeze. “This is Nugget.”

He glanced down at Kodiak, who had flattened himself to the ground and was attempting a commando crawl to get to the bag. “Nugget, as in a tasty morsel for Alaskan huskies?”

Her lips settled into a straight line. “Nugget, as in my dog’s name.”

“I was only joking.” Ben gave Kodiak’s leash a tug to put some more distance between him and Nugget. “Although you might want to be careful. To some of the dogs around here, that purse will look an awful lot like a lunch box.”

“It’s not a purse,” she deadpanned. “It’s a dog carrier.”

Ben resisted the urge to laugh, figuring it would only lead to another apology. Purse, dog carrier…what was the difference? What kind of dog would actually fit into something that small? Kodiak would have outgrown that thing by the time he was twelve weeks old. “Dog carrier. Got it.”

His response seemed to satisfy her, if the return of her sweet smile was any indication. “Can I ask you a question?”

Weariness had begun to settle in his bones and the line at the registration desk had at last thinned out, but Ben found himself agreeing. “Sure.”

She slipped the dog carrier over her shoulder. Ben could see two tiny eyes staring at him through a mesh panel on the side of the bag. “Are they all this loud? Wild Alaskan huskies?”

The way her green eyes widened when she said it brought a smile to Ben’s lips—a genuine smile. It had been a long time since he’d smiled like that. It felt strange. “They’re just Alaskan huskies. You can drop the wild.”

She bit her full lip. “Of course. I knew that.”

“And the answer is no.” Ben looked down at Kodiak, who’d finally given up on his quest to meet the elusive Nugget. The bigger dog had rolled onto his back, with his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.

“Really?”

He wasn’t sure why it made him glad to see that she looked more curious than relieved. “Most of them are louder.”

She laughed. “I’ve seen them in photographs so many times. I just didn’t realize.”

“They tend to be quieter on film.” I ought to know, he thought.

“I want to be prepared.” Her smile grew wider and her eyes sparkled like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Are you staying for the race?” She had to be. Why else would she be here, now of all times? Although he couldn’t imagine, for the life of him, why a woman like her would have any interest in the Gold Rush Trail sled-dog race.

“Of course. That’s what brought me here, to Alaska.” The sparkle in her eyes intensified when the word Alaska passed her lips.

A tangle of dread formed in the pit of Ben’s stomach. She wasn’t saying…no, she couldn’t be.