Broken Trails

Pleased, the girl pulled out the mittens and tried them on.

Lainey set the dog food, booties, and work gloves with her gear, sweeping the rest back into the bag she had used to transport them from the musher’s meeting. “I wasn’t expecting the turnout,” she said, laying back on the bed, hands behind her head.

Scotch examined one of the booties with a critical eye. “It’s easier for folks to get to the start than the finish. At least they know when the race starts. Depending on weather and dogs, the ending can happen anywhere from eight to twelve days from now. No one can guarantee being there for the winner.” She collected the booties and put them in a travel bag. “If you don’t want all of that, you can leave it in the lobby for someone else to pick up. A lot of mushers can’t afford much - keeping the dogs fed and happy takes a lot of money. An extra set of booties or gloves can come in handy.”

Still lying on the bed, Lainey nodded, her mind on the information packed meeting in which they had spent the day. The trail conditions had been the most informative, the race manager warning that temperatures had warmed areas of the interior, causing overflows at rivers and creeks. The rest of the time had been spent with the other mushers signing commemorative items, turning in the last of their paperwork, and hearing speeches from the executive director, three sponsors, and several race officials.

A knock interrupted her musings, and Irish hastened to answer the door.

“Come on. We’re heading over to Sullivan Arena,” Rye said, sticking his head in the door. Behind him stood Miguel and Howry.

“Don’t want to miss that!” Scotch grabbed her parka.

Lainey grinned and got up. Time for dinner, more speeches, and the drawing of numbers to see in what order mushers would be starting.

The Fuller Kennel clan had their own table. One seat remained empty, but that hardly mattered. Not only mushers and their families or supporters were in attendance; many avid racing buffs had paid their entry fees, as did a multitude of reporters. The vacant seat was continually occupied by roaming fans arriving at the table to meet Scotch and get autographs or pictures taken. Lainey was startled to discover a rudimentary fame of her own. She took it in stride, following Scotch’s example by treating each visitor with courtesy and humor.

Once the latest Iditarod enthusiast had left, Lainey leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “They must be hard up for material if they’re asking me for autographs.”

Thom laughed. “Who knows? You might be Rookie of the Year this race. That alone will make your autograph worth something.”

“Yeah, and maybe I’ll win the race, too,” Lainey said, chuckling at the unlikeliness of such an occurrence.

“Lainey?” someone asked behind her.

She rolled her eyes at the Fullers before putting on a pleasant face and turning to the new arrival. Her expression faltered and she gaped at the man standing there. “Ben?”

Benjamin Strauss, Cognizance editor, smiled, his teeth white against the tan of his skin. “Is this seat taken?”

Howry came around to shake Strauss’ hand and make introductions to the rest of the people at their table. Lainey remained flabbergasted at her friend’s sudden appearance. She vaguely heard Thom insist that he join them for dinner, and then he was sitting beside her.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, finally reaching over to give him a pleased hug.

“Since we’ve been covering the bills and training articles, of course we’d be here to cover the race itself. The magazine also bid on the Idita-Rider auction,” he said, referring to the extra weight needed to slow the excited dogs down at the start of the race. He ordered coffee from a passing waiter, and smiled at her. “Guess who’s riding in your sled on Friday?”

“You?” She laughed at his nod. “I hope you didn’t have to pay too much!”

Strauss busied himself with adjusting his silverware, an air of self-satisfaction about him. “You’d be surprised. It’s no secret that the impressive Scotch Fuller has been training you. We actually had a bit of competition to win the bid.”

“Really?” Rye asked. “How much did it go for?”

“Sixteen hundred.”

“Wow. That’s not bad at all,” Scotch said.

“Thanks to you,” Strauss said, raising his cup in salute.

Lainey grinned as Scotch blushed, and patted her thigh under the table. Dinner was served not long after the new arrival. Most of the race followers settled at their own tables to eat, leaving the mushers in peace. Conversation was stimulating, especially when the Fullers discovered that Strauss also had field experience under his belt. The tales grew taller as the three journalists attempted to outdo each other for the most exotic locations and bizarre situations in their careers.

As dessert was served, the chief executive officer approached the stage. He got to the podium and cleared his throat over the microphone. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, it’s about that time.” He waggled an elaborate cowboy boot.

The audience cheered and clapped, and Lainey felt her heart beat hard in her chest. There were a lot of people attending this event, and she had never spoken to more than thirty or forty at a time. She nervously glanced around at the other tables as a name was called out. How many people were here, anyway?

The names were called in order of sign up. As each musher picked a number from the hat, indicating his or her starting position, he or she took the opportunity to thank sponsors and family. Some had a long list and the time dragged on, time in which Lainey became more and more panicked.

“Scotch Fuller.”

Lainey smothered her anxiety by loudly applauding as Scotch stood. She envied the quiet confidence the woman had as she wove her way through the tables toward the stage, pausing to shake hands with friends and fans on the way.

At the podium, Scotch grinned and waved, receiving another round. She reached into the hat and pulled out a number, giving it to the race official.

“Number forty-eight, Scotch Fuller!”

A collection of groans joined with the clapping and whistling. There were seventy-six mushers this year. Scotch would start right in the middle of the pack.

Scotch stood at the podium, waiting for the applause to die down. When it had, she said, “Looks like I’ll have to work extra hard to catch up this year.”

Lainey laughed with everyone else, enjoying the friendly tone, forgetting her concerns as Scotch continued speaking.

“I’d like to take the opportunity to thank my parents, Thom and Helen Fuller. Without them I wouldn’t be here, let alone be racing dogs. They put together our kennel and taught me everything I know about dogs and sledding. I want to also thank Rye and Irish, my brother and sister, for all the work they’ve done to keep the kennel running.

“My thanks to Cognizance magazine for being my main sponsor this year. By extension, that thanks also goes to Don Howry, Lainey Hughes and Ben Strauss, all sitting at that table over there.” She pointed, smiling at them. “Don’s the reporter writing articles about me for the magazine. Lainey’s our rookie entry and trainee, and Mr. Strauss is the one who helped it all happen.”

Lainey smiled back at her as she continued her list of sponsors. All the individuals who had purchased booties or ‘adopted’ dogs over the internet, the school kids who put on bake sales and fund raisers to help with costs, and the various local businesses who had funneled money into the kennel in support of Scotch were mentioned.

“And finally, thanks to all of you. You’re a great bunch of people and I’m glad you’re here.”

The crowd broke into applause and cheers again as Scotch left the stage. The racing committee executive returned to the microphone.