Broken Trails

An air raid siren went off, the second blast in the last ten minutes, and her attention diverted to the far end of Front Street. The incoming racer would soon make an appearance. As she watched, the sleepy street began to fill, doors opening to spill out people who happily awaited the new arrivals. When not outside to cheer the mushers on, the spectators sat around the bars and restaurants, visiting. It was one big, happy party, a town-wide celebration that lasted a week or more.

Lainey reluctantly removed her hands from her pockets, taking off the thick Gore-Tex mittens. She tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to ignore the stabs of pain as her fingers began to freeze, adjusting her camera for the upcoming shot. She consoled herself with visions of a tropical beach, half naked women, and fruity drinks with little umbrellas sticking out of coconuts. Glancing through the viewfinder, she saw the flashing police lights of the escort nearing her position. Rather than lose her appendages to frostbite, she thrust her hands back into her pockets until she could get a decent shot. The gathering crowd began to cheer the new arrival, an excited swell of sound. It seemed louder than normal, however, compared to Lainey’s admittedly rudimentary experience. It took a moment for her to realize why.

Two dog sleds approached the fenced in run, both drivers hollering instructions at their animals for all they were worth. In a race that lasted two weeks or more, seeing more than one musher headed for the finish line at the same time was an exciting event. The police cars stopped where the fence began so as not to impede the racers who continued toward the finish line. Lainey zoomed in on the dogs, her pleasure of being in the right place at the right time over shadowing her irritability. Though she could not hear them above the noise of the spectators, the animals barked and grinned as they ran for the finish line, tongues lolling out in excitement. Lainey took a series of photos, pulling back her focus as they neared and passed. For variety, she turned her camera on the audience across the way to capture their emotions.

As quick as that it was over. They reached the race’s end, a wooden arch spanning the street, and several volunteers grabbed the dogs to halt their progress. An announcer called out who won the miniature race as well as a reminder that the awards banquet was that evening. The crowd dissipated, faded away, returning to the warmth of houses, bars, and hotel rooms until the call of the siren urged them to the street once more.

Lainey knew from race reports that the next mushers were not expected for three or four hours. Her elation faded, the bad temper reasserting itself. With chattering teeth and numb fingers she collected her gear, stashing her camera inside her jacket to better protect it from the elements. There was a hot tub in her hotel, and she planned on making full use of it before the awards ceremony. Hopefully that would soak the ache out of her ribs for a time. Tomorrow, she would be on her way to New York, allowing Strauss an opportunity to show his thanks by buying her a monster bottle of ibuprofen, and dinner at the most expensive restaurant in town.

A few people remained outside to enjoy the bright yet insubstantial sunlight. Lainey slung her camera bag over her shoulder, musing about the shots she had gotten, deciding that there might be four or five good ones in the lot. Hands deep in her pockets, she trundled off toward her hotel. She had to upload the digital data to her laptop, fine tune the photos, research the Iditarod public relations folder for the names of the new arrivals, write a proper blurb, and email the entire mess to her editor. All of that had to be done before she could reach her ultimate destination of the hotel hot tub.

Pondering her to do list, Lainey did not pay much attention to the sidewalk. One minute she was walking on the slush created by salt and sand used to aid traction. Then her foot hit a patch of solid ice. She yanked her hands from her pockets as she slid about, making a comedic attempt to remain upright, flailing her arms to keep balance. Gravity was ever victorious, and she barely had time to clutch her precious camera against her chest before landing on her rump. She grunted as her ribs jarred with the impact, sharply jabbing at her chest.

“Whoa! You okay?”

“I’m fine!” Lainey snapped. It was bad enough performing the perfect pratfall. Having witnesses only made matters worse. She unsuccessfully tried to stand, only to return to the ice with a thump, and another grimace. Hands grabbed her upper arms, and she was hauled to her feet like a sack of potatoes.

“Those shoes aren’t made for this weather.”

Exasperated, Lainey said, “Well, thank you for that shrewd observation.” She pulled away from the hands still holding her, double-checking the camera through her jacket before belatedly looking at the woman standing before her. Lainey’s mind stuttered to a halt.

She was taller than Lainey by about four inches, her build hidden under a bulky pullover parka that was as blue as her eyes. The fur-lined hood was pushed back, revealing a rust brown baseball cap with tawny golden curls sticking out from beneath. Her skin was tan and slightly weathered, an incongruity to Lainey who assumed women in the north would have pasty complexions from being inside all winter. The friendly smile on her lips faded in light of Lainey’s acerbic attitude and rude stare.

For Lainey was staring. She could not seem to help herself; something about the woman’s stance, subtly confident in ways most women did not possess, was so intriguing. “I’m … I’m sorry,” Lainey said, yet again wishing she had developed the habit of thinking before opening her mouth. “Thank you for the help.”

The woman seemed mollified, but the smile was gone. She nodded politely and stepped away, returning to whatever errand she had been on prior to running into a klutzy photo journalist with no manners. Only then did Lainey realize the woman was not alone; a younger version of her was with her, a teenager with a hint of peach fuzz on his upper lip.

Not knowing what to say, Lainey watched helplessly as they walked away.

Shivering, her side reminded her that she was in Alaska, where the men were tough, and the women were tougher. As she headed toward the hotel, she wondered why God would be so cruel as to taunt her admittedly overactive libido with a gorgeous woman like that.

CHAPTER TWO

LAINEY SIPPED A club soda at one of the press tables. She had struck up a rudimentary friendship with the other journalists here, pleased that no one recognized her name. They were enthusiastic supporters of the Iditarod, unlike herself, inclined to focus more on local or sporting news than global. Many came out every year to slog through the snow, and brave blizzards to reach distant checkpoints and that elusive interview. Most were newspaper reporters with steady jobs in the northern states or Canada. It did not leave much common ground between them.

There was also the natural level of animosity between the regular joes and free lancers, and Lainey expected the gentle cold shoulder she received. She supposed it would have been more rabid had this not been Alaska. One thing she had noticed was the care everybody had for one another; it gave a small town feel to the air, though there were several thousand people in Nome. The only other free lancers following the race were a pair from Norway, and a half dozen Japanese seated at other tables. In both cases, the language barrier and level of interest in their subject were reasons enough to keep them apart.

Her attitude had not changed much from the afternoon, regardless of her ability to breathe easier after her soak at the hotel. This was yet another reason for her peers to keep their distance, as her decided lack of enthusiasm clouded the area around her. She consoled herself with the weather report she had received from the front desk. Tomorrow was going to be bright and sunny, her plane leaving out of the airport in the morning, on time. That would be worth a drink if she were still drinking. She silently toasted her good fortune with the last of her soda, then ordered another from a passing waitress.