Broken Trails

The other cause for her attitude was the woman. Lainey had tried everything she could think of, but the vision helping her to her feet remained firmly lodged in her brain. Unable to pry loose the thoughts of her, Lainey had chalked it up to an under active sex life, but it still nibbled at the back of her mind.

The meal nearly finished, it looked like things were picking up on the stage. In response, the diners became quieter, and the reporters more active. Lainey took the camera hanging at her neck, and gave it a final once over. She left her table with a handful of other photographers as they all jockeyed for position on the floor. Rather than fight for the prime real estate, she remained to one side, giving her a clear shot of the audience and a profile of the current Iditarod president as he began his speech. She had a fifty-fifty shot of catching the award winners as they came past her to the stage or, if they chose the other side, a full frontal shot as they approached the dais. Later, there would be a posed photo shoot while the scheduled dancing began.

The winner of this year’s race, a ramshackle man with a droopy blond mustache, chose to head to the opposite side, pleasing Lainey. No doubt everyone else would follow his lead. This afforded her an advantageous position, and she used it well as her camera shutter clicked away.

Mentally, she filed the names and awards as they passed through. The big winner won the grand prize, a check for sixty-nine grand, and a new diesel truck from a local dealership. She knew there were monetary prizes for the next thirty finishers, ranging from sixty-three thousand to eighteen. Rather than bore her editor with all of them, Lainey stopped photographing after the fifth place winner went through, checking her digital readouts and readjusting for the next round of prizes.

“Tenth place, Scotch Fuller of Fuller Kennels! Twenty-eight thousand dollars!”

Scotch? Who would name their kid Scotch? Intrigued despite herself, Lainey searched the audience for the owner of such a moniker. One table burst into rowdy cheering at the announcement, several standing as they clapped the mysterious Scotch on the back. Lainey half expected the man to be as drunk as his friends or family appeared to be. It was a couple of moments before she realized the tenth place winner was a woman, not a sloppy drunkard. When she got to the base of the stairs and into the lights of the stage wash, Lainey’s mouth dropped open.

It was the woman who had helped her to her feet that afternoon.

Without the parka, she looked better than Lainey remembered. She wore jeans and a rose-colored turtleneck sweater, revealing a lanky form that held more than a hint of femininity Her hair was short and curly, like Lainey’s, but the lights sparked it into golden fire. Her smile was brilliant as she accepted her winnings, and a handshake from the Iditarod president. Then she spoke into the microphone, thanking her family and sponsors.

With a start, Lainey aimed and shot, allowing the automatic shutter to keep collecting data as Scotch finished her speech. Completely enamored, it was not until the digital camera ceased that Lainey returned to the present. With a curse, she examined the readout to discover she had used up the entire data storage disk. She fumbled another from her pocket, but did not replace it quick enough to get a close up of Scotch leaving the stage.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of photo ops and reveling. Knowing the job came first did little to console Lainey as she got the required interview with the top three placers. Her mind simply would not allow her to focus, constantly dragging her attention to one particular table. Disgusted at her lack of control, and at her inability to get more photos of that intriguing woman, Lainey was almost relieved when she saw the Fuller celebrants leaving the banquet. At the same time, however, she had an abrupt urge to follow them, properly introduce herself and thank Scotch again for her assistance that afternoon.

Late that night, after her final installment had been sent to Strauss, she sat in the dark of her hotel room. The only illumination was her laptop display. Lainey had taken the consecutive photos of Scotch Fuller, stringing them together to create a movie of sorts. She sat at the desk, chin in her hands as the impromptu movie played on a continuous loop.

What kind of person was she? Was her name real or a nickname? Did she have a boyfriend? A husband? She had to be a strong individual. Winning tenth place in a thousand mile dog sled race was not something to sneeze at. She was the highest placing woman this year, too.

An Internet search had turned up some interesting facts. Scotch was twenty-three, and this was her third Iditarod, her best time overall. This year she had also won the Leonhard Seppala Humanitarian Award for the care she had given her dogs. Would she make another Iditarod attempt next year? Did she have what it took to win? And why the hell would a beautiful woman want to torture herself by racing dogs?

Most importantly, where had she acquired such self-assurance and poise? She was a kid, born and raised in the boonies. Yet, she carried herself with a level of confidence Lainey had only seen in ancient matriarchs of various cultures around the world. Sure, a lot of women in America held themselves the same way, what with the advent of the women’s liberation movement. If feminism had made such great strides in the Alaskan bush, however, then why was Lainey routinely referred to as “little missy’ by the front desk clerk? Scotch seemed to carry a lot of weight with the men around her, more of an equal than as a woman. It was only natural Lainey found the subtle authority … exciting.

She closed her eyes, the light of the display flickering against her lids. Regardless of her blindness, she still saw Scotch, sharing a smile with her. Her thoughts took her to other, more intimate questions, as her fingers began to stray along her body.

What did she taste like?

“Alaska?” Benjamin Strauss asked. To give him credit, he did not sound nearly as confused as his expression indicated. “You’re kidding.”

Lainey leaned back in her chair, and sipped her espresso. “Nope. I’m dead serious.”

They sat in a small coffee shop in midtown Manhattan. Through the window, Lainey watched the wildlife of New York rush about on the corner of 57th Street and Sixth Avenue, every one of them bundled against the chill of a late winter rain. Even with the cold, she only felt a twinge from her injury, a relief after her sojourn north.

Strauss’ tan was incongruent with his business suit and well-trimmed salt and pepper hair. Ruddy features proclaimed an outdoorsman, though his clothes and demeanor screamed corporate executive. Lainey knew him to be more the former than the latter, having spent several months in the Australian outback on a shoot with him. They had met and become fast friends, the intervening years tightening their bond. He had been her sponsor in Alcoholics Anonymous, and remained a staunch supporter of her through her abrupt shift from war correspondent to nature photographer.

He scrubbed his worn face, and peered closely at her. “Who are you and what have you done with Lainey Hughes?”

“Ha ha,” she said, her face stony though the humor flashed in her eyes. “You did say you would agree to the next story I pitched.”

“No, I didn’t,” he said, waving a finger at her. “You hung up on me.”

Lainey made a rude noise. “We both know you would have said yes.”

A grin crossed his face. ‘maybe,” he allowed.

She waved his objections away, and returned to the subject. “Well? What do you think? Is it feasible?”

He mirrored her seriousness. “Considering we just published an Iditarod story this issue,” he said, tapping the current copy of Cognizance on the table between them, “why should I do it again in a year?”