Broken Trails

“Lainey Hughes.”

She felt the blood drain from her face, having forgotten that she was next in line. Around the table everyone was clapping and laughing, urging her forward. Lainey could not hear their words through the roaring in her ears. Howry stood and took her hand, pulling her to her feet and pushing her in the general direction of the stage.

Lainey stumbled only once before gaining a modicum of control over her rebellious limbs. Halfway to her destination, Scotch intercepted her. Their hands met, and Lainey felt a measure of strength flow through the touch. Pale blue eyes twinkled in amusement and understanding. She leaned close, her voice loud to be heard over the applause. “You’ve faced down a rampaging moose.”

Jerking her head back, Lainey unconsciously straightened. She most certainly had. A slow grin crossed her face and she squeezed Scotch’s hand. “Thanks.”

Scotch gave a little bow and released her.

Shoulders squared, Lainey continued to the stage. She was no less scared of her predicament, but it did not hold the same level of power over her. The mad desire for a shot of whiskey had abated. Climbing the steps, she reminded herself that in two days, she would be far away from this madness, heading into the quiet Alaskan wilderness with her team.

The boot of numbers was offered to her and she reached inside, swirling the contents around before taking a slip of paper.

“Number four, Lainey Hughes!”

Four? Four? She stared out over the celebrating audience, unable to clearly see her table through the glare of the lights. She was going to be leading the rookies out of the gate.

The audience thought she was preparing to speak as she stood at the podium, hands on each side. They quieted, and her heart thumped in her throat again. Moose. Rampaging moose. When she spoke, she was pleased her voice did not tremble as much as the rest of her was.

“I think that everyone at Fuller Kennels deserves the biggest thanks - Thom and Helen Fuller; Rye, Irish and Bon; and Miguel Sanchez, their handler. But mostly Scotch Fuller for taking on someone from Outside with absolutely no knowledge of racing to train for the Iditarod. All of them showed a lot of professionalism and patience in dealing with not only a rookie racer, but a greenhorn to boot.”

She blushed at the laughter and fumbled for the index card in her pocket she had prepared the night before. “Um, I’d also like to thank Cognizance magazine, my primary sponsor and employer. By extension, thanks go to Don Howry, my partner in crime, and Benjamin Strauss, editor and close friend. The first one traveled to the wilds of Alaska for a story. The second bought my pitch and sent me out here even though he thought I was crazy.” Lainey went down her list of supporters on the card. Through the kennel website, she had her own fan club of school children and Iditarod aficionados that had brought in money.

When she finished, she gave a brisk nod and stepped away from the podium. The relief flooding through her almost made her stumble at the bottom of the steps. She heard the next racer’s name called and breathed a sigh as the clapping and whistling was directed at someone other than her. Several attendees reached out to pat her back or shake her hand as she passed. Finally at the table, she gratefully sank into her chair, surrounded by smiling faces. The musher on the stage began his speech, but no one here paid him any attention.

Scotch took Lainey’s hand. “You did great.”

“Yeah, you didn’t faint,” Howry said, raising his glass to toast her fortitude.

Lainey stuck her tongue out at him, receiving a laugh.

“And I still think you’re crazy,” Strauss said.

She shrugged one shoulder. “You knew that a long time ago.” Looking at him, she saw his curious expression and realized Scotch still held her hand in plain view on the table. She raised an apologetic eyebrow, knowing the truth was out. He now had a good idea why she had chosen Scotch for this article.

Lainey supposed she should feel guilty for lying to Strauss all those months ago, but she did not. Shoulds and shouldn’ts were what got her into alcoholism in the first place. He of all people knew that. Instead, she smiled at him, and squeezed Scotch’s hand.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

LAINEY PACED UP and down the side of the dog truck. She had checked her sled for the sixth time, satisfied that everything was in place, yet clearly feeling she had forgotten something. Her nerves jangled with the yipping of excited dogs, to include the eight on her team that she had tapped to run the ceremonial start. They were tethered to the sides of the truck, parked on a side street with hundreds of people roaming about.

The atmosphere was one of a circus, with vendors wandering through the crowds, hocking everything from reindeer sausages to tshirts to fuzzy moose antler head pieces. The people were just as colorful as the well sponsored mushers along the route. Lainey had seen working class joes in conservative winter jackets, people wearing the latest styles of the Alpine ski circuit crowd, and even a few official mountain men and natives with complete leather and fur outfits.

She had to admit it was easy to forget her growing trepidation as her starting time inched closer. Her distractions were not limited to people watching; she had suddenly become an icon and was approached by a number of folks wanting pictures, autographs and to talk dogs. Lainey welcomed the conversations eagerly, glad to get her mind off her nervousness.

Of her original twenty dogs, three more did not make the cut. Helen had doubted Apollo’s shoulder strain would be healed well enough for the race, and at the mandatory vet check it became official. Lainey’s slacker, Dablo, was also set aside. She could not spare the energy to deal with his negligent pulling. The toughest loss was Bast. He had done well through training, but seemed to have developed a cough. As kennel cough was a major concern, highly contagious and able to decimate entire teams, Bast was removed at the vet check and sent home with Miguel to a warm dog barn and antibiotics. Lainey was glad to see none of the other dogs exhibiting symptoms two days later, and hoped to have caught the illness in time.

Several volunteer handlers idled around the immediate area, those in front already helping the second musher in line keep his dogs from launching onto Fourth Avenue which crossed a half block away.. The animals were jumping, all four feet off the ground, in their enthusiastic desire to get on the trail. Lainey’s team was not as boisterous, but she expected that to change once she began hooking them to the gang line.

In response to that thought, she went down the line again, making certain it was laid out neatly and all connections were tight. Only eight of her dogs would be running this morning. The rest would be joining her tomorrow at the real start of the race.

“You did that already,” Strauss said, watching her fuss with amusement.

“Shut up,” she said , ignoring his laughter. Her insides twisted with disquietude. It almost felt as bad as her short walk up to the stage at the banquet the other night.

“Miss Hughes?”

Lainey looked up to see a youth on the verge of adolescence holding a camera. Two other kids were with him, all starry eyed as they smiled at her.

“Can we get a picture? Of you and your lead dogs?”

She forced her edginess aside and smiled. “Sure. Come on.” Leading the way to Sholo and Trace, she knelt between them, pulling them into a hug. “How’s this?”

“Great!” The boy snapped a couple of pictures. “You’re Lainey Hughes, the photographer, right?”

“That’s me.” She stood and brushed the snow from her knees.

He looked at his companions. “I told you!” Unzipping his jacket, he pulled a folded magazine from inside. “Can I get you to autograph one of your pictures?”