Broken Trails

Broken Trails

D. Jordan Redhawk

P.D. Publishing, Inc. (2012)

*

Lainey Hughes, former war correspondent and current nature photojournalist, has been given a challenge: head to the bush of Alaska to experience life as a rookie Iditarod musher from sign-up, through training, and on the trail itself. But Lainey has a secret, one that she’s kept even from herself – she’s broken, heart and soul, from her devastating days reporting from the front lines.

Scotch Fuller has been racing dogs all her life, and is considered a potential contender for first place in next year’s Iditarod. She loves her dogs, loves her family, and has loved so deeply in the past that it nearly ended her.

These two women end up together, each training and learning from one another, each beginning to understand that a broken trail can be mended, as can a broken heart.

Broken Trails

CHAPTER ONE

March

“ALASKA?” LAINEY HUGHES’ voice rang off the pale green concrete walls. Internally wincing at the abrupt silence in the room, she peered over her shoulder at her fellow travelers awaiting the next bus out of the small African village. She gave the neatly uniformed customs agent and his well-armed guards an apologetic wave, not caring for their sour attention, and turned back to the cracked plastic pay phone.

“It’s March, Ben. Do you know what that means?” She swiped at a trickle of sweat running along her temple. Even with a rudimentary fan, the tiny building could not battle the heat here along the equator. Truth be told, she would not have it any other way.

Benjamin Strauss, editor of the acclaimed cultural magazine, Cognizance, said, “It means that the Iditarod is in full swing, and the second best photo journalist in the world is in the Providence Medical Center with a compound fracture.”

“No,” Lainey said, closing hazel eyes. She took on a lecturing tone. “It means that it’s fucking cold, with huge snow drifts, frozen lakes, and hibernating bears. I don’t do cold. The only ice I want to see is floating in my scotch. And I don’t drink, you follow?”

“I need you, Lainey.”

She leaned her forehead against the wall. “Why should I do this?”

“Because you love me?”

Her lips thinned as she did a passable impression of Marge Simpson’s growl.

Apparently, Strauss understood the fine tightrope he balanced upon. “Look, it’s not like Henry planned to slip off that bluff. The piece isn’t done; I need at least a dozen more shots of racers crossing the finish line, and some coverage at the awards banquet an Sunday.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“All right, you want the truth?”

His tone became grim, and Lainey fought the desire to wince again. When he asked a question like that, it was best not to hear the answer. Still, she dreaded the thought of making it easy for him. She was freelance, not free labor. “Yeah.”

“One, I need someone of the same caliber as Henry. Two, you’re the best in the business. Three, you’ve just finished up a piece for me, and are already in transit, making your travel plans easier to alter. Four, it’s only for two days, and you know I’ll compensate you damned well for your trouble. And five-”

Lainey flinched in anticipation, knowing what he was going to say before it left his lips a half a world away.

“You owe me.”

She thumped her head once against the wall. It had to be a pretty important layout for him to remind her of that. Behind her, she heard the motor of an approaching bus. Only one was due today and, if she missed it, she would be stuck in the bush for another week.

“Lainey?”

“You’ll never be able to use that ace again,” she said with a sigh.

“I know, and I didn’t want to use it at all.” Strauss’ voice lightened. “What’s your itinerary?”

“Providing things go well, I’ll be leaving out of Nairobi tomorrow, arrive at London International the following day, and then on to New York.” She looked over her shoulder to see the bus idling in the dirt road. Most of those who had been waiting were already outside, passing their bags and parcels to a several men balanced on top.

“Go ahead and fly into London. I’ll leave a ticket for Anchorage at the British Airways desk. You can find a connecting flight into Nome when you get there.”

Lainey scrabbled for a pencil and pad, jotting down the directions.

“Henry’s in Anchorage, but I’ll get him to make arrangements to give you his hotel room in Nome. Just go to the Polaris when you get to Nome.”

“I’ll be there,” she said, stashing the pad, and grabbing her gear.

“Thank you, Lainey. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

The last of the passengers were boarding, and the customs agent glared pointedly in her direction. “Yeah?” she asked Strauss. “Next time I pitch an idea, buy it and we’ll call it even.” She did not hear his response as she hung up. Checking her camera bag was still secure across her shoulder, she grabbed her duffel, and ran into the hot Ugandan sun.

Delegated by her late arrival to the back floor of the bus, Lainey sat on the duffel bag and cradled her precious camera bag. At least she was not riding on the roof with some of the other passengers. She leaned her elbows on her knees, and her head on her folded arms. The constant sway of the transport coupled with a number of conversations in the native Swahili and Ganda languages allowed her to focus on her phone call to Strauss.

She had only wanted him to know she was finished with the assignment, not that she was available for another. To goad her into the job meant he was under a lot of pressure to get it completed. It was a sure bet he had nothing to take its place in time for the next issue to hit the stands. What he said was true, though. Lainey owed him her life. If it had not been for Strauss, she would have died in a bottle years ago, taking along anyone misfortunate enough to give her the keys to a vehicle. She had been sober for four years, three months, and nine days because of his friendship. The least she could do was brave arctic weather for him; he had braved her anger and despair to return her to the living.

When she arrived in London, she would have to call her mother, and let her know their visit would be delayed. She would miss her lunch date with Carol, too. Damn. Lainey had so wanted to get laid. Being in the African bush, hunting small colorful birds for an upcoming spread left little opportunity for such matters. The only thing they grew in Alaska were sled dogs and polar bears; the women had to be beyond butch to survive the wilds and weather, and Lainey preferred women who looked like women.

Grumpily, she pondered what exciting and very tropical idea to pitch when she next met with Strauss.

For the hundredth time, Lainey felt thankful for the tripod stand she packed on her travels around the globe. The thing was worth its weight in gold on this assignment, what with all the shivering she did. Taking pictures without it would have resulted in nothing but one blur after another. She trembled again, and stamped around in a futile attempt to get warm, ignoring the vague ache in her side. Her snowsuit, rated for forty below, did not seem to work as well as advertised, and she toyed with the idea of writing a letter of complaint to the manufacturer.

A slight gust of wind brushed the edges of the fake fur ruff about her face, the frigid temperature at odds with the brilliant sunlight reflecting off snow. She entertained herself with thoughts of demanding Strauss send her somewhere in Mexico for a yearlong assignment. Burrowing her hands in her pockets, she wondered why the hell people wanted to live in a place like this. Granted, most of them were not in as much pain as she was, her old ‘football injury’ putting her in need of occasional medication, which probably had something to do with it.