Iditarod Nights (2 page)

Yeah, a man would notice.

"What do you do in Nome, Dillon?"

"I own a bar and grill, the Bering West."

"Oh."

Her reaction didn't surprise him. He hadn't
entirely shaken old habits carried over from another life.

"I'm sorry," she said with a self-conscious
flick of her hand on the steering wheel. "I thought maybe..." She
paused, then shook her head. "It's not important." She worried her
lower lip between her teeth, as if calculating her next question.
Finally she gave a sigh that bordered on exasperation and asked,
"Are you married?"

"No."

The abruptness of his answer earned him a
quick look. "I didn't mean to be nosy." She muttered something
Dillon couldn't make out, then went on to explain, "It's just that
there's something you should know about my friend."

Dillon waited. The strand of hair she'd
tucked behind her ear came loose again and she brushed it away from
her face. A nervous habit, he realized, like some people chewed
their fingernails.

"Janey and I have known each other since
grade school. When she married Matt and moved to Alaska, we didn't
see each other for years." She shot him a resigned smile. "Now that
I'm here, she doesn't want me to leave."

The truck side-slipped around a shadowed, icy
curve. Dillon tensed, his thoughts going to the safety of his dogs.
But in the time it took to think it, Claire eased back on the
throttle and corrected the slide with a slight turn of the
wheel.

She continued without missing a beat. "My
friend has decided that if she can find me a husband while I'm
here, I'll stay in Alaska after the race." Her voice reflected her
irony. "I'm afraid Janey's going to take one look at you and have
me off to Anchorage to try on wedding dresses."

Her statement was so outrageous and
unexpected Dillon couldn't contain his abrupt laugh. "Should I
consider that a compliment?"

He caught her gaze again. The flash of
acknowledgment in her eyes, tucked away beneath lowered lashes,
sent a bolt of something hot and alive through him. When was the
last time a woman had that effect on him?

He released a slow, thoughtful breath.

"Consider it a warning," Claire replied with
a dismissing shrug. "Janey's a born matchmaker. And her
determination can be indomitable. Why do you think I was sent to
pick up the musher from Teller?"

"Because he's single."

"Bingo."

"But you're not interested."

"I didn't come to Alaska to get married," she
stated. "I just wish I could convince Janey of that."

Dillon knew it was none of his business but
couldn't resist asking, "Why
did
you come to Alaska?"

A slew of emotions skimmed her features
before settling on one. Defiance. "To run the Iditarod." She
slanted him a direct look. "You're not going to make that a
problem, are you?"

Dillon's mind detoured. He could think of a
lot of things that might become a problem between them, his gaze
drifting to her lips. Whether or not she chose to risk her pretty
neck in the world's toughest sled dog race wasn't one of them. "No,
ma'am."

Her grin was immediate, his body's reaction
to it almost as quick. "Good. I'd hate to have to stop the truck
and make you walk. Janey would never forgive me. And please, call
me Claire."

"Are you always this tough, Claire?"

"It has its advantages over soft and
vulnerable."

He discovered himself looking at her again.
He was pretty sure she'd intended the remark to sound off-handed,
but he wondered if there wasn't more to it. "At the risk of being
kicked out of the truck, most women would use soft and vulnerable
to their advantage."

She gave a throaty laugh. "Not if the woman
is an attorney."

A dark memory stirred. "You're a lawyer?"

"Criminal defense. I'm on leave of absence
from Stanfield, Wood and Keller in Portland, Oregon." She glanced
over at him. "Have you ever been to Portland?"

Shit, what were the odds?
He hesitated
half a heartbeat. "No."

He didn't consider it much of a lie. He'd
buried that Dillon Cord when he boarded a plane to Alaska six years
ago. The man he'd been, the one from Portland, no longer
existed.

Chapter 2

Claire caught Dillon watching her, his blue
eyes cool. Analytical. She frowned and looked away. Maybe he'd
learned to study people who came into his bar, sized them up for
potential troublemakers. But something told her his brain stored
information as efficiently as Maggie, her legal assistant at the
firm, filed court papers. He may run a bar and grill now, but he
hadn't always.

She began to second-guess her actions. Had
she made a mistake trusting him? After all, what did she really
know about the guy?

"I appreciate what you're doing for me," he
said.

The weariness had crept back into his voice.
She slanted him another quick look. His features were no less taut,
his gaze just as direct. But the premonition that she might have
misjudged him was gone. He had to be exhausted. Returning her
attention to the road, she said, "Actually, we're doing each other
a favor."

"How is that?"

"With you around, Janey won't have a reason
to send me on anymore errands involving eligible men." Though
Claire couldn't dismiss the fact that the man sitting next to her
seemed just as eligible and far too good looking. She could only be
thankful they both had a common goal. "While you and I are
concentrating on the race, my friend can have her little
fantasies."

"All completely innocent, of course."

Something in his tone drew her gaze. Her
pulse surged. There was nothing innocent in those eyes. "Of
course." She forced herself to look away, blinked, and realized she
was about to miss their turn-off. Muttering a silent oath, she
pumped the brakes and made a left onto a snow-covered gravel drive.
A few moments later, Sommer Kennels came into view.

The single-story log cabin nestled in the
trees, snowshoes hanging from a wide covered porch and a pair of
moose antlers mounted over the rough-cut front door, a scene Claire
had come to think of as home. Half a dozen other buildings of
varying sizes and materials, used for storage and protecting
equipment from the weather, spread out over five acres. The
cookhouse, the only other log structure, stood between the cabin
and the puppy pen.

She pulled up next to the dog yard and shut
off the engine. "Here we are."

A cacophony of yips and howls and excited
barking greeted them as forty-two huskies strained against their
stake chains. Singer's distinctive melody rose above the others,
the happy brown and black husky's masked face tipped skyward, while
his brother Riley looked on, grinning. Handsome stood on the flat
roof of his house, his white chest proud against his long black
body, symmetrical brows lifted above blue eyes, his long tail
curled in a pleased wave. The Ford swayed on its springs as
Dillon's dogs shifted in back and added their own voices to the
growing bedlam.

The cabin door banged open and a skinny,
dark-haired boy, his parka more off than on, bounded down the steps
toward them. "Auntie Claire's back!" he shouted.

Claire smiled. "That's Janey and Matt's
eight-year-old son, Andy. I'm not really his aunt, but since Janey
and I are like sisters..." She pointed to the petite, slender woman
in jeans and an insulated vest over an eye-popping red sweater,
short brunette hair winging from her ruddy face as she rushed after
the boy, waving a comb. "There's Janey."

A broad-chested man in faded yellow coveralls
and a dingy purple cap emerged from the cookhouse and shouted,
"Pipe down over there!" The noise level in the kennel yard dropped
to a smattering of whines and low grumbling.

"And that's her husband, Matt."

The driver's-side door flew open and Andy
hopped onto the truck's running board, using the steering wheel for
a handhold. "Hi!" he said, loud enough to make Claire wince. "My
name's Andy!"

Before Claire could ask the boy to lower his
voice, Dillon slid his arm across the back of the seat, brushing
her shoulders and sending a current jagging through her that left
her utterly tongue-tied.

He extended his other arm in front of her.
"Nice to meet you, Andy. My name's Dillon."

Andy thrust his hand in Dillon's much larger
one and pumped it twice, a look of self-importance on his young
face. "Nice to meet you too."

Dillon drew back, though his arm remained
draped across the seat, maintaining gentle pressure against
Claire's shoulders. She found the gesture, and his nearness,
unsettling and would have gotten out of the truck had it not been
for Andy still swinging from the steering wheel.

"Andrew Sommer, get down from there and comb
your hair," Janey scolded, coming up behind her son.

"Aw, Mom."

"No arguing, young man." Janey glanced inside
the cab. Her hazel eyes focused on Dillon and widened, her brows
disappearing beneath feathered bangs. "Oh. You're not Lucas."

Dillon smiled. "No, ma'am." He cocked his
head and met Claire's gaze, his face inches from hers, the bold
glint in his eyes wicked. Claire's throat went dry. "I'm not
married, either."

Heat rocketed up Claire's neck and into her
cheeks. For long seconds she stared at him, flabbergasted. When she
finally looked away, her gaze collided with Janey's. She wasn't
sure which was worse, Dillon's smug audacity or the wedding bells
she saw in her friend's eyes.

"What's going on?" Matt asked, coming to
stand behind his wife. He stroked his beard and looked at Dillon.
"Who's Claire's friend?"

"I'm not sure," Janey answered, her pert
mouth curving in a mischievous grin. "But I can't wait to find
out."

***

Dillon wondered what in God's name got into
him as he followed Claire out of the truck and introductions were
made. Hell, teasing a lawyer was like playing Russian roulette with
a fully loaded revolver. Annoyance radiated from the woman like
static electricity.

But he had to admit, seeing the rush of color
to her cheeks made it worth the risk.

"We'll board your team in those empty dog
houses over there," Matt told him, pointing to a far corner of the
kennel yard.

"If you'll excuse me," Claire said, "I have
some things to take care of inside." Without another word, she
turned and walked away.

Even with her parka hanging below the curve
of her hips, she had a way of moving that drew Dillon's attention,
her shoulders pulled back, her long stride confident. She didn't go
straight to the cabin, but stopped to hug a striking Alaskan husky
whose legs turned to rubber at the woman's murmurings. The dog
rolled onto his back, exposing his stomach to her, and she gave a
light, intimate laugh that hit Dillon in a dozen unexpected places.
He looked away and found Janey Sommer watching him, her smile
wide.

"It's good to have you with us, Dillon," she
said, her voice bright. "I think you'll be comfortable here."

He wouldn't call being thrown off balance by
a lady lawyer he'd succeeded in irritating comfortable. Or the way
that lawyer's laugh reminded him of how long he'd been celibate.
But he'd get over it. "I'm sure I will, ma'am. Thank you."

"Janey. Please." She exchanged a secret look
with her husband. "I'll go put some coffee on while you get our
guest settled."

Matt kissed her soundly on the mouth.
"Thanks, honey." He chuckled as his wife made a detour on her way
to the cabin, snagged Claire's arm and dragged her inside. "So,
Dillon," he said, once the women were out of earshot, "you ever
considered getting married?"

The arid draft of a memory brushed through
him. "Not in a long time."

"Then watch yourself, my friend, unless
you've a mind to start thinking about it."

"I'll do that."

Andy stood at the back of the truck, carrying
on a conversation with one of the dogs through the compartment door
cutout. "That guy there is Rocky," Dillon said, moving to stand
beside him.

The boy's face scrunched as he peered up and
asked, "Because he's a fighter, like that guy in the movies?"

Dillon smiled. "No, because he's got a head
like a rock wall."

He introduced the rest of the dogs as they
were unloaded. Bonnie and Clyde, Deshka, a small, tireless
caramel-colored Alaskan husky, mild-tempered Blackie and his agile
brother Chevron, a blue-eyed gray and white Siberian named Pete,
Guy, a big half-hound that wasn't real bright but dependable and
steady, Dodge, Windy, Elliot, another small dog with amazing
stamina, his wheel dogs, Max and Alpine Annie. Flannigan's Stew,
Maverick and Gretchen rounded out the team.

The Sommers' dogs greeted each new visitor,
some growling at the intrusion, some standing on their hind legs
and yanking at their stake-out chains to sniff the air and whine. A
few curled into tight balls, their backs to the whole business as
if annoyed by the commotion, or just plain disinterested. Every dog
had its own low, square shelter lined with straw, a five-foot chain
that allowed it to move around but not tangle with the others, and
a food dish. All the comforts of home.

Dillon could say the same for his own
accommodations. The cookhouse was clean and organized, with a bunk
suspended from the wall at each side of the door, a cupboard to
stow his gear in, and a wood-burning stove in the middle of the
room. The only amenity lacking was a bathroom.

"You share the one in the house with us,"
Andy informed him.

"We keep a fire going out here to heat water
for the dogs," Matt went on to explain. "The chow is stored in the
back room."

"Most of mine is sitting over at the Warren
place," Dillon said. "I had it flown in a couple days ago."