Broken Trails

Scotch stared at Lainey, her mind stuttering to a halt. She blinked and shook her head. “What …?”

Lainey grinned and sat up. “Chamber pots. You know. Porcelain pots that you squat in rather than shuffle around in the dark and cold, baring your ass to freezing temperatures.” She gave her friend a wave. “I, of all people, understand the rustic life here. I’ve lived and worked in third world countries. But even in Africa they have a version of the chamber pot. Why don’t you?”

Her trepidation faded, replaced with a healthy dose of relief and amusement as she registered what Lainey said. Scotch ruefully ran her hand through her hair. “They’re called honey pots around here, and I don’t know why I haven’t got one. Can’t say it’s ever come up in conversation.”

“Well, it is now,” Lainey replied in crisp tones.

Warming to the conversation, Scotch shifted in her chair. “What do you suggest, O Worldly One?”

Lainey stuck out her tongue, causing Scotch to laugh.

“Funny you should ask. I happen to have noticed that there are a lot of five gallon buckets over by the dog barn. I think one of those would make a wonderful indoor privy for those of us without ice in our veins.”

“It’s you that’s cold blooded.”

Lainey’s brow furrowed. “How do you figure?”

“It’s a scientific fact that cold blooded animals get sluggish in lower temperatures. If that doesn’t describe you in the morning, I don’t know what does.”

Lainey stuck out her tongue again.

Scotch barely refrained from asking her if she was offering her services. She blushed and shied away from where that would lead the conversation. “So what are you wanting? My permission to set up a honey pot in the cabin?”

“You live here, too,” Lainey said. “I realize that no matter how often it’s emptied or how clean I keep it, there’ll be some odor involved.”

Shrugging one shoulder, Scotch said, “It really won’t be that bad.” She gave Lainey an inquisitive look, receiving a nod in return. “We could go into town tomorrow after lunch and pick up plastic bags and some lye or something to help control the smell.”

Lainey’s smile was beautiful. “That’ll be great!”

Scotch echoed her grin, an ache in her heart. God, she would love to snuggle under that quilt and kiss Lainey senseless. She ducked her head, unable to shake her amusement, and brought her cup to her lips instead. Of all the people to fall for it had to be an international photo journalist who soon would be off on another adventure.

She wondered again if Lainey was gay. There was nothing definite Scotch could point her finger to, but sometimes it was a word or a look that made her question her initial supposition that Lainey had a man in every port. Or maybe it was Howry. He had a wicked humor and had made several comments in Scotch’s hearing. Was he gay and saying those things to Lainey because they were friends?

“What are you thinking?”

Startled from her thoughts, Scotch groped for something to say. “Just thinking about Don.”

Lainey cocked her head in silent question.

“He’s going to have a tough time keeping up with me now that the snow has flown.”

“Yeah.” Lainey chuckled. “Yeah, he is. But don’t underestimate him. He’ll probably follow you around on a snowmobile every day if you let him.”

“Snowmobile? What the hell, Miss Hughes!” Scotch held her cup in her lap, a stern expression on her face.

“Snow machine! Snow machine!” Lainey raised both hands in surrender, almost upsetting her tea. “I’m sorry, master! I had a momentary relapse!”

“Damned right you did,” Scotch groused. “By the time you leave this great state of Alaska, you’ll be able to pass for a native.” She enjoyed their shared laughter. It was less than what she truly wanted, but good friendships were hard to find. This was one she did not want to screw up.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

November

LAINEY WENT OVER her sled with care, checking the plastic runners for damage and tugging this way and that to test the rigging. As soon as it passed inspection, she pulled the towlines from the sled bag, laying them out on the icy ground. A few feet away, Scotch mirrored her activities.

Rye and Irish were gone, having left immediately after breakfast, a dog truck full to the brim with excited mutts and three racing sleds. There was a junior event in nearby Wasilla, and they had entered a handful of sprints for the day. It was after lunch now. Chances were good that one if not both of them had placed well and were finishing the last race before heading home.

Once Lainey had the line in place and tested for wear and tear, she set her snow hook, stomping it deep into the snow. For the most part the large curved metal hook served as an anchor to keep the sled immobile. Mindful of the fact that she was running Jonah today, she also tied her snubline to a post. She had learned the hard way that her muscle man wheel dog had a tendency to pop the hook. It took one morning of chasing her team down on foot to retain that particular lesson.

It was a weekend so there were no tourists scheduled. The handler, Miguel, had a group of amateur mushers on a weekend excursion. By now six eager teachers from Minnesota had left a filling and educational lunch at Lafferty’s fish camp and were on their way to the other side of the river for an overnight stop at the hot springs.

Lainey had been surprised to discover that after the snow flew, visitors became more frequent, not less. Not only were nearby schools busing their students to outlying kennels for field trips, but Helen received a fair share of veterinary classes from Anchorage. Apparently, hers was the only local animal hospital attached to a racing kennel, and the graduate students came from miles around to see the full operation.

And then there were the neighbors. It seemed like everyone in and around the nearby village had stopped by at least once since the snow began, many of them on dog sleds. Of those, most used their dogs as winter transportation, a string of three or four animals hauling them around the area. One man lived in the bush, trapping and fishing for a living, and he followed his trap line like clockwork. Three others were in training for various races, to include the Iditarod. While they idled over the requisite cup of coffee, Lainey listened raptly to their tales of races won and lost, gleaning as much as possible from their experiences.

Lainey pulled a small notebook from her pocket and flipped it open. She had twenty dogs to train, and had worked up a running schedule with Scotch’s help. When it came down to the race, she would only be allowed sixteen, but Scotch had made certain she had a decent selection from which to draw. This early in the training season, they were both running ten dog teams, mixing and matching the animals to get them comfortable with working together. She checked her list for Saturday afternoons, and went to round up her team.

Soon a mass of furry barking animals tugged on the sled, their vocalizations answered by Scotch’s team and the anguished demands of those being left behind. Though Lainey had been mushing dogs for a month now, their excitement was catching, and she found herself wanting to hurry through the final checks. Instead, she calmed her exhilaration and went down the line, rechecking tuglines, necklines and the heavy rubber shock cord.

At her sled, she did a quick inventory of the mandatory items required for the Iditarod. She had eighty dog booties, a cooker with three bottles of fuel, a three gallon pot and a cooler for cooking and soaking dog chow, another pan for people food, ten plastic bucket lids for dog bowls, an arctic weather sleeping bag, an axe, eight pounds of emergency dog food, a pair of snowshoes, and a plastic bag of frozen white fish to snack the dogs. It seemed a lot in light of the fact she was only going to be gone for three or four hours. But Scotch had insisted on these items as well as some odds and ends survival gear, explaining that a sudden blizzard would kill her just as quick whether she was two miles away from home or two hundred. The one thing Lainey hated to carry was the holstered .44 automatic. She had enough nightmares about guns after her injury; she saw no reason to drag the baleful weapon along, regardless of the danger of wolves or moose on the trail. Though the gun was not mandatory, Scotch had put her foot down, threatening to renege on their contract if she refused. Given no other option, Lainey kept the loathsome thing buried at the foot of the bag.