Iditarod Nights (10 page)

He frowned as though he couldn't remember,
then shook his head. "No."

"How about I buy you breakfast?"

"Sure. Thanks."

She'd been joking about buying. McGrath's
volunteer-staffed kitchen rivaled any five-star restaurant and the
food was free to mushers. Claire did her best not to drool as she
balanced two paper plates piled with pancakes, link sausage, bacon
and scrambled eggs to the table. Setting the plates down, she
snagged a bacon strip with one hand and extracted the cold mug from
Dillon's grasp with the other. "Refill?"

"Please."

When she returned, the half-eaten bacon
dangling from her mouth and a brimming mug of black coffee in each
hand, she caught Dillon attempting to cut into his pancakes. His
hand shook so bad Claire feared he'd break his plastic fork. But
she stopped short of grabbing it from him to help. It didn't take a
mind reader to know he'd object to having his food cut up for him
like a child. And he was pissed. She saw it in the tightness around
his mouth and eyes.

She sat and dug into her food. "Wanna talk
about it?" she asked around a mouthful of eggs loaded with cheese
and ham. Divine.

"No." He gave up on the fork, grabbed a
pancake from the top of the stack, rolled a sausage link in it and
shoved it into his mouth.

Claire slathered butter and syrup on her own
pancakes and consumed them so fast she almost tasted them. "It
feels like I haven't eaten in months," she groaned.

Dillon mumbled something that sounded like
agreement and wrapped another sausage in a pancake. "I'll trade you
my bacon for your sausage," he said before stuffing his face.

Claire made the trade. She preferred bacon
anyway. By the fourth pancake-wrapped link, she noticed his
trembling had eased. He attempted the fork again, this time with
better luck, to eat his eggs. She went back to the kitchen for an
enormous, gooey cinnamon roll and more coffee.

"Get your own," she said when she saw him
eyeing her plate.

The corner of his mouth lifted.
"Spoilsport."

She watched him walk away, saw the fatigue
pull at his body, and wished he'd talk to her. But in her present
state, she probably wouldn't remember anything he said anyway. Lack
of sleep fuzzed her brain and slowed her movements as she buttered
her cinnamon roll and took a huge bite. Then another. And
another.

"Claire?"

Her head snapped up. She realized she'd been
about to nod off into what was left of her cinnamon roll.

Dillon slanted her a smile. "You've got
butter on your nose."

"Oh." She swiped at her face with her napkin
and noticed the almost finished hunk of chocolate cake in front of
him. "How long have I been sitting here comatose?"

"Not long."

"Liar. Guess I'd better find someplace to
sleep."

"There's space in the back," he said and
pointed. "Follow the snoring."

Claire tried to laugh but it took too much
energy just to stand. All the coffee and sugary treats in the state
of Alaska couldn't keep her awake right now. "Are you staying your
twenty-four here?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll catch up with you later."

He nodded. "Thanks for breakfast."

***

Claire found a space on the thick carpet as
far away as possible from the unidentifiable lump snoring in the
corner and spread out her sleeping bag. She set her alarm for four
hours and tucked it against her belly so it wouldn't disturb
anybody else when it went off. Using her parka for a pillow, she
pulled the sleeping bag over her head and gave in to
exhaustion.

***

Bloody fingers reached for him, clawed at his
face. He tried to fight off the ghost-white figure drained of life.
His leaden arms refused to move. Desperate to escape, he ran. His
heavy boots slid on empty pizza boxes. Room after room, a maze of
emptiness and hallways went on until his legs trembled. He couldn't
find the way out. Door after door led him deeper in. His heart
hammered. He struggled for air. Breathe. He tried to yell but could
only force a choked, guttural sound past his raw throat. The toe of
his boot jammed into a soft lump on the floor and he fell hard to
his knees, biting his tongue. He crawled over the lump, his hands
sinking in fur. A dog. A white dog covered in blood.

No! God, no!

Dillon jolted. Claire leaned over him, her
hair tangled.
What's she doing here? She needs to get
out...

"Are you awake?" she asked.

Not trapped. Not crawling in blood. "Where am
I?"

"In the mushers' sleeping area. Sounded like
you were having a nightmare."

Yes. A nightmare. "Shit." He sat up and
rubbed at his face. An iron taste in his mouth told him he hadn't
imagined biting his tongue. "Did I say anything?"

A woman laying a few feet away mumbled, "Loud
enough to wake the dead."

Someone else grunted confirmation.

"Sorry," Dillon muttered. "I'm leaving."

Two sleeping bags over, an alarm clock went
off and Claire cringed. "Looks like I am too. See you for
dinner?"

"I'll buy."

She gave a tired smile. "And I'll try not to
fall asleep in my dessert."

Chapter 16

Located on the Kuskokwim River, the village
of McGrath, population around 400, functioned as a communication,
transportation and supply center for Interior Alaska. Roughly equal
distance from Anchorage to the south and Fairbanks to the north, no
roads connected it to either, but river access and a full-service
airport, along with restaurants and lodges, made it a popular
destination. An almost constant drone of air traffic and
snowmachines assaulted the senses, yet Handsome's head lifted at
Claire's approach.

"Did you have a nice nap?" she asked, giving
his ears a rub. He closed his eyes and soaked up the attention.
Ranger yawned and whined for his turn. Claire went down the line,
greeting each one and administering rubdowns. Their unplanned stop
in McGrath turned out to be advantageous. The midday temperature
had climbed to twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit, too warm for the
dogs to maintain long distances without frequent stops to take in
water. Tomorrow's forecast promised colder conditions.

"How about a tasty frozen lamb strip to snack
on while I cook up some chow?" Singer tossed his head back and
howled. Groucho, who had been doing his best to ignore her, sat up
and licked his chops.

Once Claire had her dogs checked, fed and
comfortable, she dug out her personal bag and headed for the
shower. She lathered her hair twice, while the hot water loosened
tight muscles and made her feel human again.

When she entered the community center a short
while later, the smells of steak and potatoes had her stomach
rumbling. She didn't see Dillon as she put in her request with the
kitchen staff. The table they'd shared earlier was vacant. She
poured herself a cup of coffee and grabbed a seat to wait. It gave
her an opportunity to people-watch, pick up bits of conversation,
note the diversity of mushers, what they wore and what they joked
about. Some discussed trail conditions and strategy, how their dogs
were performing.

It struck her that she was part of something
much bigger than herself. Out here in the middle of nowhere, her
dad would say. She wished she could share the experience with him
but knew he wouldn't understand. Mama would have. She'd probably
have insisted on racing her own team. The thought had Claire
smiling into her coffee mug.

Movement at the entrance caught her
attention. It was Dillon. He'd cleaned up. And shaved? She waved to
get his attention, drawing a nod and smile from him. Her pulse
tripped over itself. Darn it, he has a nice smile. And a nice way
of walking, even exhausted as he must still be. She could get used
to watching him come into a room.

"Ooh, look at the pretty boy," somebody
commented from the other end of the table. A burly musher with a
tangled moustache and broad grin.

"Must have a date," someone else cooed.

Dillon slanted them a wry grin of his own.
"Jealous?"

"You bet!"

They shared a good-natured laugh. Claire
stood when Dillon got close enough to touch. She ran a hand over
his smooth cheek. "Is this for me?"

"It sure wasn't for those jokers."

Warmth flushed through her at the glint in
his eyes. She drew his face closer and kissed him, eliciting cheers
and a wolf whistle from their audience.

"Excuse me, honey." Claire looked over at the
dark-haired kitchen volunteer setting a plate of food on the table.
"Your dinner's ready." The woman winked. "Unless you'd like me to
keep it warm for you."

Warmed-over steak? "No, thank you, I'll eat
now."

The woman's shoulders lifted and dropped with
her loud sigh. "Whatever you want."

Whatever you want.
Dillon said those
words to her four days ago. Her face heated at the memory. She
turned and found him watching her. She wanted
him
. Pure and
simple. Awareness flared in his eyes and she thought she finally
understood the concept of swooning. If not for the support of the
table against her leg, she wouldn't have been surprised to find
herself dropping to the floor in a faint. It had to be exhaustion
and hunger.
You don't do soft and vulnerable, remember?

Her stomach chose that moment to rumble
again.

Dillon smiled. "You'd better feed that
thing."

Claire tucked at her hair and gave a
self-conscious laugh.

***

Dillon enjoyed hearing her laugh. He enjoyed
watching her eat, the automatic way she hooked her hair behind her
ear while shoveling mashed potatoes into her mouth. She made it
easy to attribute the flashes of darkness to sleep deprivation and
concern over his injured dogs. That's all it is, he told
himself.

Maybe I could have acted quicker –

"You really packed a razor?" Claire asked,
slowing her potato shoveling to cut a bite of steak.

He'd opted for biscuits with sausage gravy
and green beans. "I bought a cheap disposable at a store down the
street."

"I should check it out later. I'd kill for a
bag of barbequed potato chips right now."

"You're kidding." He forked a hunk of biscuit
into his mouth.

"Oh please. Don't you have a guilty pleasure?
Something you'd eat in spite of the heartburn?"

"Pepperoni sticks," he mumbled around his
chewing.

"Excuse me?"

"You know, the kind they keep in a plastic
container by the checkout."

"Gross."

"You're the one who asked." A forkful of
beans hovered over his plate. "When we get to Nome I'll buy you the
biggest bag of barbequed chips I can find."

"
Potato
chips, not corn."

"Got it."

"And I'll buy you a container of pepperoni."
She gave a dramatic shudder and muttered, "Along with a tin of
breath mints."

He laughed.

"Seriously, I'm not kissing pepperoni
breath."

Dillon liked the idea of more kissing. He
raised his coffee mug in a toast. "You've got a deal."

She tapped her mug rim to his. "You heading
out tonight?"

"Midnight."

"Think you'll get a little more sleep before
you leave?"

"No." Then because his answer sounded abrupt,
he justified it with, "I won't have time." Closer to the truth than
not. He needed to feed his dogs before leaving, and get a vet to
check Maverick's right front leg once more, make sure he was up to
running. The fierce little husky rode into McGrath in the sled bag
with Bonnie because of a limp, but the vet suggested a heat wrap
and rest might be enough to keep him in the race. Dillon hoped so.
He hated dropping dogs. Losing both of his best leaders would break
his heart.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asked. "I
mean, the moose attack hit you pretty hard. Dropping Bonnie – "

His guard went up at her concern. He couldn't
help it. After years of practice, he had no control over the
automatic reaction. "I'll be okay." Repeat it often enough and he
might even believe it.

She studied him for a long second. "Good."
She collected her trash and pushed away from the table. "Thanks for
dinner. And the kiss. I'm going to get some sleep."

Dillon put his hand on her arm so she'd look
at him. "Thank you for worrying about me," he said.

"You're welcome."

***

Claire woke at 4:00 a.m. on day five, rolled
her sleeping bag and stumbled outside to her dogs. Dillon and his
team were gone. Powder-fine snow continued to fall in the predawn
darkness. Eight new inches covered the sled bag and turned her
dogs, curled under their blankets on beds of straw, into breathing
mounds with ears.

The peaceful stillness, void of air traffic,
made her think of Christmas. A string of multicolored lights hung
from the eaves of a cabin at the end of the street. In place of the
soft jingle of sleigh bells, the muffled drone of a snowmobile
drifted from across the river. The thermometer outside the
Laundromat read minus two degrees as she prepared to feed her team
one more time before heading out.

Fluffy deep snow meant slower traveling and
increased the odds of moose encounters. She hoped Dillon's run-in
was an isolated occurrence, for him and everyone else on the trail,
but she would make sure she had easy access to her ax and revolver
before leaving McGrath. She hoped dropping Bonnie didn't affect
Dillon's ability to finish the race.

And she hoped he outdistanced whatever demons
rode shotgun with him.

Chapter 17

Maverick's limp worsened on the climb up
Porcupine Ridge. Dillon loaded him in the sled bag. "Sorry, Mav,
looks like the race is over for you this year." He put Clyde in
single lead but the Siberian's head wasn't in the game. Dillon
stopped again. "What's up, man? You missing your sister?" He gave
Bonnie's brother a consoling rub. "I don't blame you. I miss her
too." Clyde returned to the middle of the team and Dillon put
Deshka in lead. "Let's see how my caramel girl does. You ready for
this?"