Broken Trails (9 page)

"Fuller!" he bellowed as the vehicle engines died down. "How the hell are you?”

Scotch grinned, seeing a couple of the tourists shrink away from his larger than life persona. "Pretty good, Ray,” she said before disappearing into a bear hug. He stood at about the same height, and his thick beard scratched her cheek. Pulling away, she grinned, gesturing at her charges. "Let me introduce you to our guests.”

Lafferty personally welcomed everyone with a warm handshake and equally warm smile, relaxing even the most aloof of the visitors. As he distracted them, she and Rye snacked the dogs on chunks of moose liver. Half of the tourists went with Lafferty as he showed them around his camp. The rest watched as Scotch and her brother saw to the dogs. She relaxed into teaching mode, explaining as she massaged each dog that she searched for mild injuries as well as kept the animals used to intimate handling.

Eventually, the smell of frying fish drew their admirers away. She went to the river to collect water for her team as Lafferty regaled his audience with tall tales of life on the frontier.

“So what do you think about this training business?”

She looked over at Rye who squatted beside her on the same errand. "I don't know,” she said. "It makes sense, I guess. I just wasn't expecting it.”

"Yeah.” They filled their water jugs in silence. "What's she like?”

A well of emotion surged as Scotch tried to formulate an answer. ‘she's nice,” she finally stated, painfully aware of how little that truly conveyed. What else could she say? The fact of the matter was that she hardly knew Lainey, and did not have a clue to her motivation in wanting to do run the Iditarod.

She trudged away from the bank toward the dogs. Spartacus and Cleatis were posturing, looking to squabble. They worked well together but, given an opportunity, would brawl like overgrown puppies. Scotch welcomed the distraction, pulling Cleatis from the line to tie off to a sturdy tree nearby.

After she watered the rest of her team, she settled down in the shade to think. Her brother, sensing her need for solitude, joined the party at the fire.

How the hell was she going to train Lainey to run the Iditarod? It was tough enough training her first string dogs to do the job. Scotch had never tried teaching someone else to do what she did. She had grown up with dogs and sleds. It was second nature for her.

To be honest, Irish and Rye did not have the time to instruct Lainey, either. When the snow flew, all three of them would be found on their sleds, preparing for the races. This winter, Irish had her eye on winning a handful of sprints sponsored by her youth organization and local businesses. Rye would run the Junior Iditarod for his third year, and probably hit the Junior Yukon Quest if the kennel could afford it. Scotch was aiming to hit the Copper Basin, a handful of adult sprints, and the Iditarod itself. There was little time any of them could devote to a rookie.

Lainey seemed a knowledgeable woman. She had faced the business end of a gun at some point and survived. But the Iditarod was an endurance run that could last anywhere from nine days to three weeks, weather and trail permitting. There would be places where no one would be able to help her if she got into a life or death jam. Was the photojournalist tough enough to withstand that type of test?

The arctic gear made sense now. Most of it was new, too, indicating that Lainey had little experience with severe cold. Would Scotch and her family be able to impart the importance of how to deal with the extremes? Or would Lainey suffer frostbite and potential amputation in her ignorance?

Scotch's stomach grumbled, reminding her it had been some time since breakfast. The smell of grilling fish was strong, and she saw most of her tour group filling up on Lafferty's lunch buffet. She had already agreed to teach Lainey. Nothing to be done about it now except follow through with the deed. There was plenty of time to worry it to death.

She stood and dusted off the butt of her pants before joining the group at the fire.

CHAPTER TEN

July

LAINEY HARDLY NOTICED the road, intent on the packet of papers in her lap. “The undersigned hereby elects to voluntarily enter the Race, knowing that it may be a hazardous and dangerous activity. The undersigned hereby voluntarily assumes all risks of loss, damage, or injury, including death!’ she quoted. She looked at the driver. "Death?”

Scotch grinned. "Don't worry. The trail is watched round the clock. If it looks like there's a problem or a musher is lost, snow machines are sent out from the checkpoints to find him. The worst you'll have to worry about is frostbite or hypothermia.” She glanced at her passenger. "Didn't you read that when you notarized it at the bank this morning?”

"Well, yeah. Sort of.” She allowed herself to be distracted, not wanting to dwell on the issue of frostbite. Indicating the stack of paperwork, she said, "I guess I got a little overwhelmed with the amount of forms required.”

"Read it carefully before you sign up this morning. You'll lose a portion of your entry fee if you pull out before the race starts.”

Lainey nodded, and returned to the forms the Fullers had given her the previous night. The rules and regulations she knew, having done her research as soon as the senior editors approached her with their creative twist to her pitch. She and Scotch had left the kennel at seven in the morning to notarize their release waivers at a bank in Wasilla. Now she had a race application, a housing request for her eventual arrival at the finish line in Nome, forms to list her sponsors and request banquet tickets, a questionnaire about her possible needs that included everything from dog booties to horsemeat, a membership application for the Iditarod Trail Committee, and a list of smaller races that she could attend to qualify for the real thing. "I never figured there'd be such a paper trail,” she said.

"You ain't seen nothing yet.” Scotch turned off the main road with familiar ease. “There's also the dog care agreement, a local contact list, a vet form, and a vet check form for every dog on your training team, whether they make the final cut or not.”

"And you do this every year?” Lainey asked.

"When we can afford it. I usually run one year on, one year off. This will be the first time I've run two years in a row, thanks to your training money.” She pulled into a busy parking lot. "We're here.”

Lainey looked at the crowd milling outside Iditarod headquarters. There had to be close to fifty or sixty people there, and she recognized several veteran mushers from the last race's press packet. An awning was set up near the building where an impromptu office had been prepared for the sign up. A few feet away, smoke from a barbecue already streamed into the air. "Are all of these guys signing up?" she asked as the truck was driven into a parking spot.

Scotch chuckled. "No. Maybe a handful are proxy - holding places for someone else who can't make it today.” She turned off the engine and leaned on the steering wheel to assess the gathering. "Looks like maybe thirty or so mushers are here. Don't know about rookies, though. A lot of them come from established kennels or out of state. For all I know, half the family members here are rookies looking to sign up.”

The woman's profile captured Lainey's attention, and she stared at the motion of light and shadow from sun shining through trees and playing upon Scotch's golden skin. Today, the cap she wore was rust brown; it was the same one Lainey had first seen her wearing in Nome. It seemed somewhat appropriate.

Aware of her scrutiny, Scotch turned with a curious smile on her face. "What?”

"I see Rye and Don.” Lainey covered, pointing to where another dog truck was parked, the photographer comfortably seated on the hood and the teenager leaning against the front wheel well. She smothered a sigh of relief as Scotch looked where indicated, distracted from whatever she thought Lainey was thinking.

"Come on,” Scotch said, opening the door. "Let's go see where we stand.” She scooped up a folder from the seat, her entry forms.

Lainey climbed out of the truck, but remained behind to dig her camera out of the bag on the floorboard. She watched Scotch casually wave greeting to people she knew, amazed again at the way she carried herself. Perhaps it was the sense of community that fueled the easy assurance Scotch portrayed. It seemed she knew almost everyone here, despite her denial that not all those present were racing next year. As she observed, Lainey recognized several reporters from the awards banquet. Of course Scotch would know the regulars, supporters and press alike. Her family had become supporters of the Iditarod not long after its inception in 1973.

What was it like to grow up in one place, never moving, never having to make new friends?

Satisfied her equipment was in excellent condition, Lainey hung one camera from her neck, and another from her shoulder. She retrieved her paperwork, and closed the truck door.

"Welcome to Iditarod headquarters,” Howry said as she approached, hopping down from the hood. “Scotch is number twenty-seven and you're number twenty-eight, respectively.”

"Geez, and you got here early?” Lainey asked.

"Yeah,” Rye said. ‘some of these guys actually come out the night before and make a party of it.” Someone called his name, and he excused himself, leaving the photojournalists alone.

"You ready for this?”

Lainey gave her colleague a rueful grin. "Not really. I don't have much choice, though.”

“Sure you do. You can always call Ben and tell him the deal is off. He'd understand.”

The idea of backing out failed to appeal to Lainey. Not that she had a problem admitting she was in over her head, but she had worked too hard the last three months setting this up. She had barely scratched the surface on what made Scotch Fuller tick; Lainey was not willing to jeopardize that. Then there was that little morsel Scotch spoke of. If Lainey reneged on the contract, Scotch would have a tougher time paying the fees and kennel costs for an Iditarod run this year. The Fullers had taken a major financial chance agreeing to this article last April.

Besides, the longer things went and the more she learned gave Lainey cause to take on the challenge for its own sake.

"Nope. Not an option,” she repeated.

Howry shrugged. "Hope she's worth the hassle.”

Lainey felt the anger as a stab of ice through her veins. She leaned closer, her voice lowered to avoid projecting. "Get this straight. This is not for a lay, not for a seduction. I don't want to hear any more innuendo in that area. Understand?”

First Howry's face blanched, his tan fading. Then it flushed red as blood suffused his skin.

She had not seen him furious in some time, and almost did not recognize the signals as his anger blossomed.

Before she could backpedal, he said, “The hassle I was referring to was the potential injury you're facing for a stupid magazine spread, not to getting into her pants.”

Her irritation fled, replaced quickly with regret. Lainey placed a hand on his forearm. She was relieved when he did not pull away. "I'm sorry. I'm an idiot.”

He seemed mollified but still glared at her. "If we're going to work together, you need to get over this hypersensitivity. We both have a good idea why you started this, but if I thought for a minute that was the only reason for this venture, I'd bail in a heartbeat. Give me a little credit.”

She blushed and dropped her gaze, unable to look at him. "I know. I'm sorry. I just . . . I haven't figured out this draw, and it's driving me batty.”

"Lainey.”

Forcing herself to face him, she saw his expression had changed.

"I wasn't forced here, okay? It's a damn good idea, regardless of why you came up with it. I think it'll sell magazines and, if we're lucky, win us a couple of awards.” He grinned and winked, the familiar devil-may-care attitude returning full force. "If you get laid, all the better.”

Lainey wondered if she should laugh or smack him. She did neither, hearing Scotch call her name. Squeezing Howry's forearm, she released him and turned.

Scotch lounged in a plastic chair, her legs crossed at the ankles and hands laced over her belly, a bottle of beer within easy reach. She had lowered the bill of her cap over her sunglasses, looking as if she were napping. In reality, she watched the comings and goings at the sign up tent as the sun slipped further west. Rye was talking with friends from the Junior Alaskan Sled Dog and Racing Association. She recognized some of the kids from her time as a member of the organization.

Howry was wondering about with a hamburger in one hand, getting what he called 'flavor' for the first article. He had already taken photos of she and Lainey signing up for the race, as well as a handful of the better-known mushers. Her father had exercised his right as owner of Fuller Construction to take the afternoon off. Thom hung out under the sign up tent, swapping tall tales with the older men there. Hardly anyone had left after signing up for the Iditarod. The party was in full swing and would continue on into the evening. Scotch figured Irish would be by when their mother and Miguel were finished at the kennels. What held most of her attention, however, was her roommate.

Lainey lay in a patch of sunlight, leaning on her elbows as she soaked up the rays. She looked like she was enjoying herself immensely, and Scotch had to admit she took pleasure in watching. Damned if she could figure out why, though. It was not as if she had never seen a woman sunbathe before. Still, she mused on the color of Lainey's skin tones. Her complexion was darker than Scotch's, something the musher envied. No matter how hard she tried, she could never get more than a light gold tan during the summer. Lainey would become almost bronze given the proper amount of exposure.

She idly wandered the slim body. Scotch had had the opportunity to see Lainey wearing the shorts and t-shirt in which she slept. There were no gunshot wounds evident on her arms and legs. That boiled it down to her torso or maybe a head wound. It would have to have been a minor injury if Lainey had been wounded in the head. Otherwise, she would be dead, right?

Scotch frowned at the thought of how a wound like that would scar. She knew a boy who had shot himself with his father's pistol; it was not a pretty sight. Did Lainey feel self conscious about it? Or did she receive reconstructive surgery?