Broken Trails

“Because this spread was a onetime article about the race.” Lainey set down her cup, and leaned forward to convey her enthusiasm. “I propose following one musher from sign up in June, through training, and the race itself. We could pull it off as an in-depth expose of an up and comer; either a full cover to cover issue next year, or quarterly installments beginning this July.”

Strauss’ fingers drummed upon the table. “Which up and comer?”

She casually relaxed in an effort to disguise her true interest. “Scotch Fuller, tenth place winner this year.”

“What makes this guy so special?”

“The fact that she’s a woman,” Lainey said. “This was her third Iditarod, and she’s consistently improved over the years. Talk is that she has a good shot at winning next year’ all things being equal.”

“A woman?”

“Yeah.” Lainey felt her hackles rise at his tone. She forced herself to not respond to her defensiveness. In this case, Strauss had every right to be on his guard. She did not understand this bizarre instinct calling her back to a snow locked hinterland; she doubted he would either, even if she tried to explain it to him. In any case, this was still a potentially lucrative idea.

“A good looker, no doubt.”

“She’s not bad on the eyes,” she said. Before he could go any further, she sat up, thrusting out her chin. “It’s not about that.”

Strauss feigned innocence. “About what, exactly?”

Scoffing, she said, “It’s not about a roll in the hay, Ben. I really think there’s a story here.” Lainey attempted to appear earnest. That her idea involved her spending more time in the presence of Scotch Fuller only sweetened the pot.

He frowned at her. “What about the cold? I know how it messes with your ribs. You’re not going to do either of us any good if you’re too racked with pain to get out in the field.”

She dismissed his fears with a scornful expression. “Come on, it’s been years since I’ve been anywhere that was below forty-five degrees. I admit I ached some on this trip, but it wasn’t as bad as I expected,” she lied.

His examination remained focused, as if he sensed her falsehood.

“Oh, please,” Lainey said. “Besides, no piece of ass is worth that amount of aggravation. And she’s straight.”

She seemed to have pacified him, his suspicious expression fading. “All right. Say I go for it. What are you looking at for compensation?”

Lainey grinned. If he was talking money, the gig was a sure bet. “Put me on the payroll from June through March of next year. I’ll have to pay living expenses, and you know how much photojournalists make in a year. My savings account ain’t going to cut it for that long.”

Ever the journalist despite being the editor of a magazine these days, Strauss pulled a leather bound notepad from his breast pocket. As he scribbled a note, he asked, “What about copyright?”

“It stays with me.”

He looked at her from beneath his brows. “As much as I understand your end of the business, Lainey, my bosses aren’t going to let that fly. I’m putting my neck on the line to hire you, as temporary as that will be, and with little immediate payoff. I need something to bargain with, or you peddle this story someplace else.”

She narrowed her eyes in thought, staring at the street. The rain had stopped, though the sun remained muted by the clouds overhead. After a long pause, she said, “Okay. You retain copyright of what I send you. But I reserve the right to not send you everything. The salary pays for three full pictorial and written articles.”

Strauss pursed his lips, and then nodded. ‘sounds fair. I know you won’t stint on the articles at the magazine’s expense.” He wrote the agreement down. “Let’s get back to my office, and have the legal department draw up a contract. As of this afternoon, you’ll be an official temporary employee of Cognizance.”

Grinning, Lainey stood, and donned her jacket. She could not wait to get started. Her heart filled with enthusiasm, even though this was only the first step. There were still so many things she needed to get done, so many plans to make.

She supposed now would be a good time to call Scotch Fuller and pitch the idea to her.

CHAPTER THREE

April

SCOTCH DOLED THE last of breakfast into Idduna’s bowl. The dog gazed at her with adoration, ignoring the food as she wriggled in pleasure. Dropping the feed pail, Scotch lavished her with a thorough scratching. Only then would Idduna attend her meal, a combination of moistened chow, rice and hot water.

Around Scotch, the rest of the kennel greedily ate up their offerings. Her brother and sister had finished their sections, both threading through the canine population toward the dog kitchen, and she joined them. After years of habit, they hardly spoke as they continued their daily ritual. Irish, nine years old, collected the feed pails to rinse out, and store inside the barn. Scotch and her brother, Rye, pulled the fifty-five gallon drum that doubled as a huge pot off the barrel stove. While Rye rolled it outside the kitchen area for cleaning, Scotch hung the stir ‘spoon’ - a snow shovel - on a hook. Then she threw sand across the floor to soak up any spills before sweeping the concrete floor clean.

As she worked, she kept her mind occupied with thoughts of Idduna. The dog had gone into heat a week into the Iditarod, considerably distracting the team. It had taken quite a bit of creative management to keep her separated from the eager boys, but Scotch had succeeded. When the race was over, she had allowed one of her leaders, Sukita, to breed the bitch. She expected Idduna would give birth by mid-May, and she already contemplated the potential of the pups. Idduna was a solid dog in her team, and Sukita one of the smartest. He could sense a blown out trail where most dogs would get lost. Scotch wondered if she should have called him Sonar, because he certainly had the gift. Would the pups inherit that gift, too?

When she finished her chore, she and Rye returned the pot to its place in preparation of the next feeding that afternoon. In the meantime, Irish gave their two large free run kennels a cursory inspection. They evidently met with her approval, and she began the process of transferring five dogs into each one for some playtime. Ten more would have an opportunity to carouse together that afternoon.

“Kids!”

Turning back to the cabin, she saw her mother leaning out the back door.

“When you’re done with the scooping, we’ve got a board meeting.”

Rye waved comprehension. “Okay, Mom.”

“Wonder what that’s about,” Scotch said, pulling two shovels from their storage pegs. She followed Rye, who lugged a plastic trash barrel, out to the dog yard.

“You got me,” he said. “I didn’t expect a board meeting until the first of the month.”

“Me neither.” They began the job of scooping excrement from around the dog enclosures, a nasty yet entertaining one as the canines did their level best to distract them. As usual, the dogs succeeded somewhat, receiving scratches and pats as the siblings worked their way through the crap left by ninety-five animals. Fortunately, break up had not yet occurred, making the chore not as filthy as it would have been had there been melt off and mud on the ground. That would happen soon enough.

“Maybe it’s your adoring public,” Rye eventually said, grinning as he wiped sweat from his forehead with one arm.

Scotch snorted, a smile on her face, and kept shoveling. “If my ‘adoring public’ will bring in money to sponsor me for next year, I’m for it.”

“I hear you, sis.”

With the job completed, they put things away, and headed into the main house. The minimal heat of the entry was uncomfortable after her work out. Scotch divested herself of boots, work gloves, and jacket. She followed her siblings inside, inhaling the aroma of bacon and eggs with appreciation as she removed further layers of clothing. After cleaning up, the family sat down to a big Sunday breakfast.