Broken Trails

The thought of an assignment on a tropical beach caused her to break out in a sweat.

She laughed to herself as she directed the team to the shoulder of the road. Here the snow did not cover the pavement but there was some on the sides to save her plastic runners. Not that it really mattered with only a couple of blocks to go. Shredded runners were the least of her concerns; it was an automatic gesture from months of running dogs.

The lights of the police escort faded behind her as she entered the barricaded chute. Even with it being the wee hours of the morning, people crowded the sidelines, yelling and cheering her on. Flash bulbs went off from all along the route, concentrated around the area reserved for press and she wondered if Howry was there. Would Scotch be here? Did anyone tell her she was coming in?

“Trace! Montana!” she yelled, hoping they could hear her over the mass of humanity waving their arms and calling to them. “Let’s go home!”

Twelve hours after hanging up the phone, Scotch nursed a cup of coffee at the small Iditarod convention center. The place was open twenty-four hours a day while the race was on and the only place open at this hour. In fact, it looked like an overgrown checkpoint more than anything else. The double statistic board hung against one wall showing current times in and out of the checkpoints and the list of mushers who had completed their runs. Two large coffee urns squatted on a table joined by a more svelte pot of hot water and surrounded by packets of creamer, sugar, tea, and hot chocolate. Two tables had been crammed together in one corner, containing the nerve center of the Iditarod - ham radios and three telephone lines. Several smaller tables and chairs scattered across the rest of the room with volunteers, veterinarians, and fans awaiting the next musher into Nome.

She shared her table with Howry and Miguel, who had left the running of the kennel to the neighboring Schrams while he awaited the Fuller mushers at the finish line. After a week and a half on the trail, Howry looked bedraggled and grizzled. In comparison, Miguel was more animated, his beard well trimmed and minus the extra baggage under his eyes. Even Scotch was more alert than Howry, who had just come in that afternoon. High winds and threat of a blizzard had canceled his bush flight back to Nome and he had been forced to sit out the last few days as a volunteer at one of the checkpoints.

Scotch thought he was more angry at missing her finish than anything else, since the Cognizance story was assigned to him. He had spent the afternoon tracking down amateur photographers in an attempt to buy a picture of the finish instead of sleeping. She had consoled him with being able to catch Lainey’s arrival on film. Strauss had called from White Mountain to say there would not be a flight in until morning due to high winds. Somewhat mollified, Howry had dragged his butt out of his hotel and now drowsed at the table, a mug of hot chocolate at his elbow.

A battery operated radio sat on the table between them, tuned to the Iditarod update frequency. Lainey had been spotted on the trail outside of Nome, moving at a good clip according to reports. In between mentions of her location and appearance, the reporters in the car chattered about her non-existent history of mushing and what they knew of her training. Scotch’s name was mentioned fairly often, which brought the conversation to her third place win scant seconds before Drew Owens the day before. Then Lainey would navigate a pile of brush or move far enough ahead for another remark about her, and the entire thing would start over again.

It had been days since they had seen each other, and Scotch was feeling the withdrawals. She had come in almost a full day and a half earlier. After cleaning up and sleeping ten hours, Scotch had a huge steak dinner. With those needs met, she had spent the last day feeling empty. Now that she was not on the trail, there was nothing to distract her from the yearning.

How did Lainey get so strong a hold on her? What could become of them? Lainey would recuperate from the race, pack up her things and Scotch would be back to living alone.

Funny how that seemed so vacant now. It was less than a year ago that she had held reservations about sharing her cabin with a stranger. Now she did not want Lainey to leave her with the solitude, something Scotch had always treasured. Despite the heaviness trying to weigh her heart down, she hoped Lainey would stick around for at least a couple of weeks. And maybe she could come visit some time.

Scotch was not looking forward to summer.

The siren had already sounded once when Lainey was five miles minutes away. The radio announced she was almost to Front Street, interrupting Scotch’s brooding on a future that would never take place.

She shoved Howry in the arm to wake him. “Come on. She’s almost here.” She did not wait to see if the men followed, pulling her parka over her head as she dashed for the door.

It was nearly three in the morning and very cold. Scotch pulled up her hood and snugged it tight, muscling her way toward the finish line. Even with the early hour, the sidewalk began filling with others who had been listening on the radio. This far along in the race, many of them would have been asleep, but this was the first rookie arrival and merited more attention than most.

By virtue of who she was - the trainer of the incoming musher and owner of the dogs arriving - Scotch was able to get right up to the finish line and out onto the street to help stop the team. Her appearance was fortuitous. Just as she stepped out onto the trail, Lainey’s team came up from the river and hit the street.

Scotch’s heart beat triple time at the sight of her even though she could barely make out who was on the sled at this distance. The parka and sled bag were familiar, though, and she felt a smile light up her face. Those dogs were familiar, too, and she shook her head in amazement. Montana in the lead and Bonaparte still with the team. Scotch would never have gotten that mutt to accept the harness for this long.

It seemed like seconds flashed by and then Lainey’s dogs passed the finish line. Several volunteers reached out to stop the team before they kept going down the road. Scotch was supposed to do the same, but she completely forgot the animals as she made her way toward the musher.

“I made it!” Lainey yelled at her, trying to be heard over the applause and cheers. “I made it!”

“You made it!” Scotch agreed, picking her up in a hug. They were joined by Miguel and an exuberant Howry, the four of them dancing next to the sled with everybody watching.

Over the sound system, a race official announced, “Arriving in twenty-fourth place, Number Four, rookie Lainey Hughes for Fuller Kennels, two fifty-five am and twenty-three seconds.”

More cheers and applause drowned out the speaker and he had to yell through the microphone to be heard. “Congratulations, Miss Hughes! You’re no longer a rookie, you’re a veteran, and you’ve won the Rookie of the Year award!”

Scotch ignored the words, ignored the slaps on Lainey’s back from her well-wishers. She kept a tight hold on Lainey, basking in the contact, enjoying what could only be a brief and intense connection.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

SCOTCH EASED THE bedroom door closed, glad she had the foresight to oil the creaking hinges before Lainey arrived. The room was dark as she stood there waiting for her eyes to adjust. Not too dark, though, as a dull light glowed around the edges of the curtains. The clock on the night stand said it was mid afternoon. Lainey made an enticing lump in the center of the mattress, and Scotch heard a gentle burr coming from the general direction of the pillows. Lainey never admitted to snoring, which did not upset Scotch. She thought it was cute; at least it was never loud enough to be obnoxious.