Broken Trails

Howry shook his head as he shared laughter with the Fullers.

The hotel lobby was crowded. Lainey wondered if everyone lounging out here were going to the mandatory rookie meeting. There were only thirty-two rookies registered, but there seemed far more than that number milling around the foyer. December in Anchorage was not the ideal place for a vacation.

Rye returned from the front desk. “Meeting’s in the Redington ballroom,” he said.

Scotch led the way and moments later Lainey stood before a registration table with her paperwork in hand.

The Inuit woman behind the table stood up, a smile on her broad face. She bustled around, arms wide. “Helen! I heard you were speaking today! It’s so good to see you!”

“And you,” Helen said, returning the hug. “Doris, you remember Scotch and Rye, my children?”

Doris beamed at the siblings. “I most certainly do. Scotch, you did a wonderful job last year. I bet Rye will give you a run for your money when he’s old enough to enter, though.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Scotch said with a laugh. Rye grinned, though his face reddened.

“And this is Don Howry. He’s doing a series of articles on Scotch for Cognizance magazine.”

Howry shook Doris’ hand.

“This is Lainey Hughes. She’s a photo journalist for Cognizance, and is our resident rookie this year.” Helen turned to the reporters. “Doris is one of our most avid volunteers. She’s assisted the vets at the checkpoints for … how many years?”

Doris waved Helen away. “Fourteen, but who’s counting?” She bobbed behind her table, suddenly all business. “Lainey Hughes?” Peering closely at her paperwork, she said, “Ah, here it is. I’ll need you to sign in, dear.”

Lainey signed the sheet of paper, handed over her required paperwork and received more in return.

When the transaction was complete, Doris shook her hand. “Welcome to the Iditarod, Miss Hughes. I hope you have a wonderful race. There’s a coffee station right there, and then you go on in and have a seat.”

“Thank you.”

The room was fairly spacious with a stage and podium at the front. Several rows of narrow tables were set up, giving the place the appearance of a school room. Additional chairs lined the back wall, and Rye and Howry found seating there. Scotch directed her forward.

“Mom and I are speaking, so we’re in the front row. You want to sit behind us?”

“Sure.” They found places, and dropped their heavy coats.

“Scotch Fuller!”

They both turned to see a man waving at them from across the room.

Grinning, Scotch said, “I’ll be right back.”

Lainey nodded and sat down, watching her greet the man with a hug. It was nice seeing Scotch as she worked the room. The confidence that had first drawn Lainey was out in full force today. She encountered friends and acquaintances and met newcomers alike, greeting each as if they were long lost comrades. Scotch never seemed to need to be on guard; she had a strength of will that sheltered her from the pettiness of others with ease. Any negative feelings simply slid off her back like so much water. Sighing, Lainey enjoyed the show. Every once in awhile, Scotch would look her way and they would share a smile that warmed Lainey’s heart.

There had been many nights of kisses since their first, but nothing more. Both of them had agreed to take things slow. Indeed, Lainey considered it glacially slow. They had little choice, however. The dogs were racking up forty miles a day, five days a week, with training sessions lasting through lunch and into the afternoon. Soon they would graduate to all night sessions, as well. There was simply no time to indulge in her late night fantasies when they were both exhausted from running dogs. Their days off were just as busy with tours, chores, and articles to write.

Lainey allowed thoughts of training to take her mind off Scotch, and she considered her current team.

Cochise had been benched for the season, his injuries severe enough that he still resided in the heated dog barn rather than out in the kennel with the rest of the dogs. Fortunately, he was not alone, as there had been a late batch of puppies born. They and their mother were in one of the stalls, as well. As things remained on Lainey’s team, her leaders, Trace and Sholo, would make the final cut barring further accidents. It seemed that one of her swing dogs, Montana, was also developing into a leader. She had started putting him in the harness with one of the other two to give him more time at the front of the pack. It was now a matter of keeping his spirits up with the proper praise without undermining his confidence when he made mistakes.

If she took Bonaparte, she would have to take Kaara. They were a package deal. Meshindi worked well with everybody, but Bonaparte was a snob. Lainey was not sure his skill as a swing dog outweighed the hassle he could create when his back was up. She had learned the hard way, stuck out on the trail one stormy afternoon when the stubborn mutt staged a mutiny because she had forgotten his favorite snack. In retaliation, she had refused to run him for a week. It seemed to have done the trick - Bonaparte had the brains to make the connection between his behavior and the punishment - but if he pulled a stunt like that on the Iditarod, she could be stuck for hours. Granted, her chances of winning a thousand mile race were minuscule, but those hours could count at keeping her from being the last musher into Nome.

More people filtered into the room, and she idly watched them, her mind still on her team.

Everyone else seemed to be working up fine. She had six wheel dogs to choose from. Rye had suggested she keep four of them. Some parts of the trail held steep inclines and the Farewell Burn was notorious for abrupt changes. She would need the extra muscle. Jonah and Aegis were definitely going. Both had finished the Iditarod with Scotch, Jonah for three years running. His experience on the trail would be very welcome.

Of her seven team dogs - those animals who had not shown aptitude for leadership or had the extra strength needed for a wheel dog - she had serious misgivings about Dablo. He was Trace’s brother, twin to him right down to the bright blue eyes. That was where the resemblance ended, however. Trace seemed to be the go-getter in his line. More times than Lainey could count, she saw Dablo’s tug line slackening. He ran with the team, letting the others do the work, not pulling his weight. Occasionally, she could urge him into taking the load, but only when he knew they were heading back to the kennel for dinner.

“Anybody sitting here?”

Lainey looked up at a young man standing by the chair next to her. “No. Go ahead.”

He grinned his thanks and draped his jacket over the chair back before sitting down. Turning toward her, he offered his hand. “Roman Spencer, Iditarod rookie.”

“Lainey Hughes, the same,” she said, smiling.

Spencer cocked his head. “Lainey Hughes? The reporter for that magazine?”

“Yeah, that would be me. My checkered reputation precedes me.” She shrugged ruefully. “And you? Spencer sounds familiar.”

He blushed. “My dad and older brother are Iditarod veterans,” he said.

“Ah. Looks like I’ve got some healthy competition then.”

His skin darkened further, but he was saved from responding by the return of Scotch.

“Hey, Roman! Good to see you. How’s your dad?”

Their conversation fell into the normal topics for mushers - one that Lainey was quite familiar with after six months - namely dogs, trails, and races. Scotch sat in her first row chair, straddling it to face them. She had worn a powder blue cable knit sweater and jeans, her ever-present baseball cap sat on the table behind her. The discussion drew a couple of other rookies to sit close, throwing in their questions and comments.