Broken Trails (16 page)

Lainey smiled and swung her leg over the snow machine, remaining seated. She too removed her gloves. "Are we taking the dogs out today?"

"No. Let's give the trails another run after lunch. Pack 'em down some more. If it keeps coming down, we'll do more tomorrow. The tighter we pack the trails now, the longer they'll last if the temperature rises. It's still early in the season; who knows what the weather will do?"

Standing, Lainey stretched with light misgiving as her ribs gave her a slight jab. The pain was far less than it should be after the extensive ride. They had spent a good three hours roaming the trails surrounding the kennel. By all rights, she should be emulating a rheumatic old woman.

"You okay?"

Lainey nodded at Howry. "Surprisingly. I'm glad I heeded Thom's advice. That jacket I had last March was crap."

Without warning, Scotch reached out and grabbed her right hand, forcing Lainey to raise it above her head. The ache was bearable, and completely overshadowed by Scotch's skin against hers.

"You know that liniment we use for wrist injuries?" she asked, still focused on Lainey's ribs.

Blushing at Howry's smirk, she said, "Um, the one for strains and sprains?"

"Yeah." Scotch released her. "I'd bet it'd work on your ribs."

Howry snorted, no doubt entertained with the notion of Scotch possibly offering to apply it to the injury. Lainey so wanted to kick him in the shin, but knew she would have to explain herself to their witness afterward. Instead, she rolled her eyes. "It's for dogs," she reminded Scotch.

"It's been used on people upon occasion." She chuckled. "It might do the trick. You should give it a try."

Scotch's matter-of-fact tone made Lainey view the salve in another light. Its primary purpose was to ease joint aches in the wrists and shoulders of overworked dogs. It was a homegrown remedy created by God only knew who, but it seemed every musher worth his or her salt had a variation on the recipe. An herbal mixture, it was blended with petroleum jelly to give it substance and make it easy to apply. Scotch and her brother both swore by the stuff.

"All right," Lainey conceded. "I'll think about it." Scotch opened her mouth to say something, and Lainey interrupted her. "I'll think about it! Right now, though, I'm starved. Let's get some lunch!"

"That sounds like a great idea," Howry said, moving toward the back deck. Scotch grinned and nodded, dropping whatever she had been planning to say.

Lainey followed both of them, relief coursing through her. She had known exactly what Scotch was going to say. Despite Lainey's recent pledge to avoid awkward situations with Scotch, there was no way she could deny her if she offered to apply ointment.

And that would be a bad, bad idea.

Scotch idled in front of the fire, her feet propped up on an old footstool she had liberated from a thrift store years ago. She wiggled her sock covered toes, and sipped a cup of hot chocolate.

The first snowfall of the season had been a good one. If things held up like this, training would be a breeze. She recalled the winter before last, unseasonably warm, and no major flurries to speak of. It had been bad enough that snow had to be trucked into Anchorage for the ceremonial start of the race. The first third of the journey had been treacherous with bared ground and free running water. A lot of mushers had been forced to scratch the race from injuries to their animals and broken equipment.

Not this year. Scotch relished her contentment. Even if it warmed up a bit, chances were it would not interfere with the hardening trails. After lunch, they had gone another round, packing the trails down for future runs. Tomorrow the sleds would come out and the training would begin in earnest.

The cabin door opened and Lainey stomped inside. A draft followed her, but Scotch was warm enough that the cool air felt nice.

"Still snowing?"

Lainey glanced over her shoulder as she hung her jacket on a peg. "No. It finally stopped." She saw Scotch's face and laughed as she moved down the stairs to return to the couch. "Give it a rest, Fuller! We got two feet today, maybe more."

Scotch's petulant frown eased into a smile. "Yeah, I guess."

Snorting, Lainey kicked off her boots, tucking her feet back underneath a quilt. She leaned forward to retrieve her mug of tea and sank back with a sigh. "You know, there's something I've been meaning to ask you," she said, staring into her cup.

Sudden wariness disrupted Scotch's composure. She had been expecting this all day. Initially she had hoped that Lainey had not realized how close Scotch had come to kissing her. As the day progressed, however, there had been several moments where it seemed she wanted to discuss something. What was Scotch going to say when she asked what had happened? Sorry about the pass, but I've got a crush on you that just won't quit?

Her silence was noticed, and she looked up to see Lainey watching her. "Uh, yeah?" she asked.

"Have you ever considered the benefits of chamber pots as opposed to out houses?"

Scotch stared at Lainey, her mind stuttering to a halt. She blinked and shook her head. "What . . .?"

Lainey grinned and sat up. "Chamber pots. You know. Porcelain pots that you squat in rather than shuffle around in the dark and cold, baring your ass to freezing temperatures." She gave her friend a wave. "I, of all people, understand the rustic life here. I've lived and worked in third world countries. But even in Africa they have a version of the chamber pot. Why don't you?"

Her trepidation faded, replaced with a healthy dose of relief and amusement as she registered what Lainey said. Scotch ruefully ran her hand through her hair. "They're called honey pots around here, and I don't know why I haven't got one. Can't say it's ever come up in conversation."

"Well, it is now," Lainey replied in crisp tones.

Warming to the conversation, Scotch shifted in her chair. "What do you suggest, O Worldly One?"

Lainey stuck out her tongue, causing Scotch to laugh.

"Funny you should ask. I happen to have noticed that there are a lot of five gallon buckets over by the dog barn. I think one of those would make a wonderful indoor privy for those of us without ice in our veins."

"It's you that's cold blooded."

Lainey's brow furrowed. "How do you figure?"

"It's a scientific fact that cold blooded animals get sluggish in lower temperatures. If that doesn't describe you in the morning, I don't know what does."

Lainey stuck out her tongue again.

Scotch barely refrained from asking her if she was offering her services. She blushed and shied away from where that would lead the conversation. "So what are you wanting? My permission to set up a honey pot in the cabin?"

"You live here, too," Lainey said. "I realize that no matter how often it's emptied or how clean I keep it, there'll be some odor involved."

Shrugging one shoulder, Scotch said, "It really won't be that bad." She gave Lainey an inquisitive look, receiving a nod in return. "We could go into town tomorrow after lunch and pick up plastic bags and some lye or something to help control the smell."

Lainey's smile was beautiful. "That'll be great!"

Scotch echoed her grin, an ache in her heart. God, she would love to snuggle under that quilt and kiss Lainey senseless. She ducked her head, unable to shake her amusement, and brought her cup to her lips instead. Of all the people to fall for it had to be an international photo journalist who soon would be off on another adventure.

She wondered again if Lainey was gay. There was nothing definite Scotch could point her finger to, but sometimes it was a word or a look that made her question her initial supposition that Lainey had a man in every port. Or maybe it was Howry. He had a wicked humor and had made several comments in Scotch's hearing. Was he gay and saying those things to Lainey because they were friends?

"What are you thinking?"

Startled from her thoughts, Scotch groped for something to say. "Just thinking about Don."

Lainey cocked her head in silent question.

"He's going to have a tough time keeping up with me now that the snow has flown."

"Yeah." Lainey chuckled. "Yeah, he is. But don't underestimate him. He'll probably follow you around on a snowmobile every day if you let him."

"Snowmobile? What the hell, Miss Hughes!" Scotch held her cup in her lap, a stern expression on her face.

"Snow machine! Snow machine!" Lainey raised both hands in surrender, almost upsetting her tea. "I'm sorry, master! I had a momentary relapse!"

"Damned right you did," Scotch groused. "By the time you leave this great state of Alaska, you'll be able to pass for a native." She enjoyed their shared laughter. It was less than what she truly wanted, but good friendships were hard to find. This was one she did not want to screw up.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

November

LAINEY WENT OVER her sled with care, checking the plastic runners for damage and tugging this way and that to test the rigging. As soon as it passed inspection, she pulled the towlines from the sled bag, laying them out on the icy ground. A few feet away, Scotch mirrored her activities.

Rye and Irish were gone, having left immediately after breakfast, a dog truck full to the brim with excited mutts and three racing sleds. There was a junior event in nearby Wasilla, and they had entered a handful of sprints for the day. It was after lunch now. Chances were good that one if not both of them had placed well and were finishing the last race before heading home.

Once Lainey had the line in place and tested for wear and tear, she set her snow hook, stomping it deep into the snow. For the most part the large curved metal hook served as an anchor to keep the sled immobile. Mindful of the fact that she was running Jonah today, she also tied her snubline to a post. She had learned the hard way that her muscle man wheel dog had a tendency to pop the hook. It took one morning of chasing her team down on foot to retain that particular lesson.

It was a weekend so there were no tourists scheduled. The handler, Miguel, had a group of amateur mushers on a weekend excursion. By now six eager teachers from Minnesota had left a filling and educational lunch at Lafferty's fish camp and were on their way to the other side of the river for an overnight stop at the hot springs.

Lainey had been surprised to discover that after the snow flew, visitors became more frequent, not less. Not only were nearby schools busing their students to outlying kennels for field trips, but Helen received a fair share of veterinary classes from Anchorage. Apparently, hers was the only local animal hospital attached to a racing kennel, and the graduate students came from miles around to see the full operation.

And then there were the neighbors. It seemed like everyone in and around the nearby village had stopped by at least once since the snow began, many of them on dog sleds. Of those, most used their dogs as winter transportation, a string of three or four animals hauling them around the area. One man lived in the bush, trapping and fishing for a living, and he followed his trap line like clockwork. Three others were in training for various races, to include the Iditarod. While they idled over the requisite cup of coffee, Lainey listened raptly to their tales of races won and lost, gleaning as much as possible from their experiences.

Lainey pulled a small notebook from her pocket and flipped it open. She had twenty dogs to train, and had worked up a running schedule with Scotch's help. When it came down to the race, she would only be allowed sixteen, but Scotch had made certain she had a decent selection from which to draw. This early in the training season, they were both running ten dog teams, mixing and matching the animals to get them comfortable with working together. She checked her list for Saturday afternoons, and went to round up her team.

Soon a mass of furry barking animals tugged on the sled, their vocalizations answered by Scotch's team and the anguished demands of those being left behind. Though Lainey had been mushing dogs for a month now, their excitement was catching, and she found herself wanting to hurry through the final checks. Instead, she calmed her exhilaration and went down the line, rechecking tuglines, necklines and the heavy rubber shock cord.

At her sled, she did a quick inventory of the mandatory items required for the Iditarod. She had eighty dog booties, a cooker with three bottles of fuel, a three gallon pot and a cooler for cooking and soaking dog chow, another pan for people food, ten plastic bucket lids for dog bowls, an arctic weather sleeping bag, an axe, eight pounds of emergency dog food, a pair of snowshoes, and a plastic bag of frozen white fish to snack the dogs. It seemed a lot in light of the fact she was only going to be gone for three or four hours. But Scotch had insisted on these items as well as some odds and ends survival gear, explaining that a sudden blizzard would kill her just as quick whether she was two miles away from home or two hundred. The one thing Lainey hated to carry was the holstered .44 automatic. She had enough nightmares about guns after her injury; she saw no reason to drag the baleful weapon along, regardless of the danger of wolves or moose on the trail. Though the gun was not mandatory, Scotch had put her foot down, threatening to renege on their contract if she refused. Given no other option, Lainey kept the loathsome thing buried at the foot of the bag.

She zipped up the sled bag, and checked the munchie bag hanging between the handles. Here was a thermos of warm Gatorade, a couple of bags of candy, and some trail mix. Another lesson learned - the dogs were not the only ones working on a run. Tangles with brush, balking dogs, and running behind the sled to lighten the load gave her lots of exercise. The mushers at the finish line last March had made the whole thing seem easy. Lainey was discovering how much work was truly involved for the human element of the team. She was glad she had let Scotch bully her into running every day through summer and fall.

Lainey looked over at Scotch who finished her last minute checks. They had agreed to head out together, but split up about three miles out. Scotch wanted to take her dogs through the ravine, mushing them along a narrow creek bed and up onto the road near the kennel. Lainey hated that run. It reminded her of an Olympic toboggan chute more than anything else. If something happened, she would never be able to muscle her dogs and sled out of it, and probably be dragged behind instead. She already had a couple of experiences of eating snow; she did not wish to repeat them.