Broken Trails

It was this ability to hear herself that stood her in good stead out here on the trail. Lainey was no longer afraid to be alone with her thoughts. The dog food was finished. She turned off the cooker and added the measure of dry chow to the hot mixture. With mittened hands, she took the pot to the sled and poured its contents into the cooler there. Once the lid was secure and the pot cooling in the snow, she returned to the second cooker and her lunch.

Lainey made another trip up the line with the hot water, giving her team a warm drink. When she returned, she used a pocket knife to open the bag and ate hungrily. She used no utensils, squeezing the food up to the opening. When she was finished, she deposited the bag in a trash bag in her sled. Making another trip along her team, she collected their plates.

Only after all chores were done did she curl up in her sleeping bag, seated on the cooler and leaning backward to drowse. She had about three hours before her wrist alarm went off. Then it was back on the trail. As she drifted to sleep, she saw Scotch smiling at her, a promise in her blue eyes, and laughter on her lips.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

February

THE YARD WAS a disaster area.

Earlier in the week Rye had gone around and stapled paper plates to wooden stakes, each one labeled with the name of an Iditarod drop site. At each marker were two heaps of goods for each of the two mushers entered in the race. Eventually these piles would be consolidated into two or three large bags apiece to be shipped to the various checkpoints along the Iditarod trail, a delivery of doggie groceries made available as Lainey and Scotch took the arduous trek to Nome. Until that time, however, they remained semi-contained mounds of sealed plastic bags.

Lainey was taking her turn at the meat saw in the dog kitchen. She wore heavy work gloves and goggles, the sound of the table saw buzzing loud across the kennel. In her hands was a haunch of frozen horse meat which she diligently sliced down to manageable chunks. The goal was to keep the meat unthawed but in small enough pieces to easily boil up for dog stew. Her arms trembled unpleasantly with the vibrations, but she kept working.

She tossed the meat into a nearby bucket that Howry occasionally swapped out with an empty one. His job was to weigh the meat on a scale and hand it off to Miguel when it reached the one pound mark. From there, the dog handler transferred it into heavy grade plastic bags. He used a machine to remove the air and heat seal the bag, passing the finished product to Scotch.

Scotch, working from a clipboard of notes, took the package and deposited it at one of the thirty-six growing piles. She prowled the yard constantly, checking and rechecking the eighteen drop points, muttering under her breath and adding notes to the margins of her checklist.

Lainey finished the meat and stepped back, rolling her shoulders and shaking out her arms. She was glad she had had the summer to get into shape; she could well imagine the pain she would be in had she just arrived to enter the race.

“Want me to take a turn?” Howry asked.

She considered her soreness. “No, I’m still good. Besides, it’s Scotch’s turn next.” With a resigned exhalation, Lainey reached for another chunk of meat, not letting her mind settle on the animal it had come from. When she had seen the donation request form in June, she had almost thought it a joke. Horse meat? The four hundred pounds delivered last month that she slogged through now showed her the error.

Time passed as she fell into the routine. Running meat through the saw, brushing away meat dust to keep it from clogging the machine, dropping chunks into a bucket, turning away for more, and starting again. She saw movement from the corner of her eyes - Howry replacing her bucket with an empty one, Miguel sealing bags, and Scotch taking the bags into the yard. Her world was motion and sound, the buzz of the saw blocking out all other considerations.

A pat on her back broke her reverie. Looking up in surprise, she noticed Miguel and Howry halfway across the yard. Lainey turned off the saw and looked at Scotch standing beside her.

“Come on, it’s lunch time.” She squeezed Lainey’s shoulder.

Lainey groaned as the touch massaged tender muscles. Scotch stepped behind her and began kneading Lainey’s tense shoulders, and she sighed in pleasure. “That feels wonderful.”

“I believe it,” Scotch chuckled. “When we get back out here, we’ll rotate. I need to change the blade, anyway.”

“Okay.” Scotch pulled away and Lainey stretched. She glanced at the horse meat, amazed at how much she had gotten accomplished. “Wow. Time flies when you’re having fun.”

“You must be a cheap date if this is fun.” Scotch laughed and ducked the swat Lainey aimed at her. “Let’s go. I’m starved.”

“You are so going to pay for that remark,” Lainey promised as they walked to the main cabin.

Scotch gave her a sultry smile. “Good.”

Lainey felt a surge of lust and wished for the millionth time that Scotch was less responsible and level-headed. She would give anything to be able to drag the woman back to their cabin and quench her lecherous thirst. They had a training run scheduled at midnight, however, and she knew she would never make it through the night without a decent nap. There was still too much to do, too much riding on the dogs and training and preparation.

“You’ll pay for that, too.”

Scotch grinned and climbed the steps to the deck.

Shaking her head mournfully, Lainey followed, not quite succeeding in quelling the lewd thoughts inspired by an eye level view of Scotch’s rear. They entered the mud room, an enclosed entry crowded with coats, boots, brooms and shovels. It was not much warmer here, but they quickly shed their outer wear, using a broom to knock excess snow from their boots before tugging them off, too. Lainey finished first and stepped into the kitchen.

The warm blast of air burned her cheeks, and she shivered in pleasure. Smells of apple tarts warred with meat loaf and fried potatoes. The counter was buried under an avalanche of food, far more than what was needed for their afternoon meal. Past the counter was the dining room, most denizens of the kennel already sat around the large table. A rumble in her stomach urged Lainey forward, and she sat down to lunch, Scotch beside her.

Two seats were empty. Rye was on a long distance run in preparation for his first adult race. The Yukon 300 was open to seventeen year olds, and he was eager to get out on the trail and prove himself. He planned to enter the Iditarod next year.

“Where’s Thom?” Howry asked as he buttered a roll.

Helen dished gravy over mashed potatoes for Bon. “In town. Scotch wanted some more batteries for the head lights. He’s going to pick up the pizza, too.”

“Pizza!” Bon yelled, getting a laugh in response.

“Not for you, little man,” Scotch said, waving a fork at him. “It’s for the race.”

“Idit’od!”

Miguel reached over and tousled Bon’s blond hair. “That’s right. The Iditarod.”

“Well, I think you two can miss one pizza…” Helen drawled.

“How are things going in here?” Scotch asked.

“Not bad,” Irish said. “But if I see another dog booty after March, I’m going to throw it into the fire.”

Scotch grinned. “You say that every year.”

Her sister glared at her. “I can’t wait until I’m old enough to saw meat with you instead. Then Bon can get sick of booties.”

Lainey held up her hands, still feeling a phantom vibration in them. “You’ll change your mind after a couple of hours at it.”

“Will not.” Helen raised an eyebrow at her daughter and Irish blushed. “Sorry.”