Iditarod Nights (7 page)

"Sorry. I must have dozed off."

Dillon didn't see a reason to inform her
she'd begun snoring ten minutes after he opened his big mouth about
being a cop. He was grateful she hadn't asked the questions he saw
in her face at the revelation. "Sleep while you can," he said.
"There won't be much time for it on the trail."

"So I hear. Thanks." She fumbled the door
open, muttered good night, and headed for the cabin.

In less than thirty hours, they'd repeat the
hundred-mile drive to Anchorage with loaded dog trucks for the
start of the race. Dillon planned to use the Warren truck again to
transport his team. Brian had agreed to be his handler for both the
ceremonial start in Anchorage Saturday morning and the restart in
Willow Sunday afternoon. At that point, the mushers and their teams
would be on official race time. Run, rest, feed, check feet, run,
rest...an endless cycle, until time ceased to matter and reality
shifted.

Cold. Exhaustion. Incredible beauty, numbing
routine, and the dogs. Always the dogs. He wouldn't be here if not
for them. They didn't ask questions. Didn't judge. Trusted
unconditionally.

They kept him sober.

Instead of going to the cookhouse, he went to
the kennel yard. He was tempted to take a small team out for a
night run but decided against it. The danger of an injury this
close to the race was too risky. Bonnie dozed on a bed of straw in
front of her shelter, her tail curled over her nose for warmth. Her
ears came up at his approach. He knelt beside her and massaged her
shoulders.

"Are you ready to do this again?" he asked,
keeping his voice low.

She rolled onto her back for a belly rub.
Dillon obliged. This would be her second Iditarod with him, her
fourth overall. She used to belong to a man who wandered into the
Bering West three years ago in need of money. Packing it in, he
said, couldn't afford to keep his kennel anymore, broke his heart
to have to sell his dogs. Dillon bought Bonnie and Clyde and got
the story behind their names.

The rest of his Iditarod team this year came
from Frank Johnson's kennel. Frank had been tending bar at the
Bering West that day. He bought Guy more out of sympathy for the
dog than charity toward the distraught man. "A dog that dopey needs
all the sympathy it can get," Frank reasoned. To everybody's
surprise, what the hound lacked in smarts he made up for in pulling
power.

Dillon went to each member of his team,
talked to them, gave them massages and belly rubs. Elliot popped to
his feet and shook, ready to go. Dillon chuckled. "Easy, little
man. It's not time yet."

It didn't take the dogs long to settle back
to sleep, the rookies taking their cue from the veterans. But
Dillon knew there'd be no sleep for him this night. Sleep left him
vulnerable. The only way to insure the past stayed where it
belonged was to occupy his mind with the present. He still had
harnesses to mend. He'd start there.

Chapter 9

The next day, Friday, became a blur of
checking and rechecking gear to pack in the sled: five-gallon
cooler for feeding the dogs, sixteen dog dishes, a three-gallon
alcohol cooker, spare bottles of fuel – HEET – for non-checkpoint
stops, matches and more matches, headlamps, batteries and more
batteries, gloves and liners, chemical handwarmers, cold-weather
sleeping bag and snowshoes, a first aid kit for the sled, extra
socks, long johns, goggles...the list went on and on. Claire had
done her homework and understood the importance of being ready for
anything and everything. She saw little of Dillon. It was just as
well. She needed to stay focused on every detail, and that seemed
impossible when he got too close.

She called her dad in the evening, catching
him at the office. He answered on the second ring. "Ethan
Stanfield."

Hearing his familiar voice always made her
feel ten years old again. "Hi, Daddy."

"Peanut, how are you?"

She sat on the edge of Andy's bed and gave an
unsteady laugh. "The race begins in the morning. I feel like I'm
going into court for the first time."

"Court's a hell of a lot safer."

"Not necessarily." She remembered her first
jury trial, the nervous sweat, the shaking hands, the high-pitched
voice that broke embarrassingly. She'd been terrified of forgetting
her own client's name. What was a thousand miles of snow and ice in
comparison? "Are you signed up to follow my progress on the
Iditarod's website?"

"Maggie tells me I'm signed and
bookmarked."

Claire smiled and secretly thanked Maggie.
"The beginning of the race will be broadcast live online, too, so
you can watch me leave Anchorage. Look for bib twenty-two."

"Twenty-two. Got it." She heard the scratch
of his pen. "There's no talking you out of this insanity?"

"Dad – "

"Forget I said that. I'm just an old man who
misses his daughter."

"You could meet me in Nome at the end of the
race," she offered, already knowing his answer. He hadn't visited
her once. An aversion to cold, he said. If she hadn't flown home
for Christmases, she wouldn't have seen him at all during her stay
in Alaska.

"I'd rather have you home," he replied.
Claire felt a lump swell in her throat. "Be safe out there,
peanut."

"I will." She blinked the threat of tears
away and attempted to lighten the mood. "God knows I'm hauling
enough gear to survive a small apocalypse."

"Is that supposed to make me feel
better?"

She gave a tired laugh. "Sorry. I should get
back to inventorying all this stuff. I promise I'll call when I
reach Nome."

"I'll be waiting."

She shut off her cell phone and looked up.
Dillon stood in the doorway, wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a
blue flannel shirt, his wet hair slicked back and his grooming kit
in hand. She felt an unexpected frisson at the thought of him in
the next room, bathing. Naked.

"The shower's free," he said.

"Thanks."

"Did you reach your dad?"

"Yes. He's worried about me."

"You're lucky."

The softness in his voice squeezed her heart.
"Do you have somebody," she asked, "family somewhere, worrying
about you?"

"Not anymore." Harsher this time. Another
off-limits topic. "We've got an early morning ahead of us. Try to
get some rest." He made to move away.

"Dillon?"

He paused, his eyes settling on her. Frisson.
Undeniable and too strong to ignore. She tossed her phone onto the
bed and crossed the room, stopping only when she was certain he
must be able to hear the rush of her pulse. "In case there isn't a
chance tomorrow," she said, and kissed him.

He tasted of mint toothpaste, his mouth
welcoming and gentle. He wrapped his free arm around her waist and
closed the space between them until she could no longer distinguish
her heartbeat from his. Her equilibrium tilted. She felt unguarded
tenderness in the way he held her, needed her.

She kissed him until her tears threatened to
return. Drawing back, she caressed his smooth-shaved cheek and
whispered, "See you in Nome."

"That's a promise."

Chapter 10

They arrived in Anchorage before dawn. Matt
drove. Janey, Andy and Claire squeezed beside him on the Ford's
bench seat. Following the Warren truck's taillights, they made
their way to the staging area, where race officials directed them
to their assigned parking spots along Fourth Avenue and side
streets. Claire recognized some of the big names in sled dog
racing, their handlers performing like well-trained pit crews,
their trucks and trailers sporting logos of major pet food
producers, banks and airlines. Her lone sponsor was the law firm,
with a huge chunk of her own savings tossed in.

Crowds gathered along the snow fences on each
side of the street, a festive mix of furs and wolf-head hats
contrasting with the latest high tech, all-weather gear in a
variety of neon colors. Photographers and video crews chose their
positions to set up, preparing to record each musher and team as
they left Anchorage. The city's street department had trucked in
snow and spread it on a roadway they worked to keep clear the rest
of the year. The Chugach Mountains appeared to block the east end
of Fourth Avenue, the ascending sun backlighting their imposing
ridgeline.

The air vibrated with excited barking and
keening howls. Claire felt her team stir in back, their
restlessness causing the truck to sway on its springs. Her stomach
rolled, uneasy with the back and forth motion. She'd been unable to
shut her brain off long enough to get more than a couple hours
sleep, mentally packing and repacking her sled. Fueled by
adrenaline and the caffeine Janey pumped into them, her plan was
simple. Get out of Anchorage in one piece.

Dillon looked as ragged as she felt when he
grabbed his coffee and inhaled a bowl of oatmeal earlier that
morning. Then Brian and John pulled up in the Warren truck. He
downed the last of his coffee, shot Claire a wink, and stumbled out
to load his gear and dogs.

"Over there," Janey said, breaking into
Claire's thoughts.

Matt pulled into the space reserved for team
twenty-two and killed the engine. "Are you ready for this?" he
asked with way too much cheer for Claire's jangled nerves.

She attempted a smile, but suspected it
looked closer to a grimace. She'd been wrong, she decided, as her
breakfast threatened to come up. This
was
worse than facing
a jury trial for the first time.

***

Brian and his friend John helped Dillon run
stake chains along each side of the Warren truck. The dogs came out
in the order they'd be harnessed, starting with Bonnie. She sniffed
the air as Dillon lifted her from the compartment, her body
trembling with anticipation. "This is it, girl," he said, and
clipped her to the lead at the front of the truck.

Maverick, Chevron, Rocky, Clyde, Stewie. He
paired the dogs by their personalities. Because of the crowds and
the challenges of maneuvering downtown city streets, race rules
allowed a maximum of twelve dogs in harness for the ceremonial
start. And a handler – riding tandem on the sled runners or driving
a tag sled – was required for the first eleven miles, to Campbell
Airstrip checkpoint. Brian volunteered to drive the tag sled.

"You'll be doing most of the braking," Dillon
reminded him. "I don't want you rear-ending me."

"Got it."

The kid said he'd handled for other mushers,
including his dad, who ran the Iditarod two years prior, but Dillon
didn't want to leave anything to chance. On his first Iditarod, his
tag sled driver – a last minute replacement for a sick friend –
panicked and bailed at the sight of a small birch coming at her.
The driverless sled smashed into the tree, shattering the brushbow.
He was glad Claire had an experienced crew in the Sommers.

See you in Nome.
Mushers said that in
lieu of wishing each other luck. But Claire's kiss promised more
than just luck. It felt nice to be wanted. Damn nice.

Do you have family worrying about you?

He hadn't talked to his parents since the
night his dad threw him out. He didn't blame them. He accepted the
consequences of his actions, cut himself off from anybody who knew
the asshole he'd been. Dad was almost seventy, Mom two years
younger. Did they worry about him? Miss him?

Ah hell.

"Take Pete out next," he said to Brian.
"John, start putting booties on them. Leave that guy there – Clyde
– for last. He'll rip 'em off as fast as you put 'em on."

"Got it."

***

As the sun pushed high above the mountains,
driving the temperature to twenty-five degrees, a trio of women
sang the National Anthem over the loudspeaker, followed by a local
student choir with Alaska's state song. At 10 a.m., a race official
announced the beginning of the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race and the
first team to leave Anchorage took its place at the start banner.
The noise and excitement level jammed into high gear.

At 10:34, Claire heard the countdown for bib
eighteen and knew Dillon was on his way. She had less than ten
minutes. From the back of her sled, she regarded her team, now in
harness, being guided to the starting queue by Iditarod Trail
Committee volunteers. Handsome, his head up, tail whipping, shared
the lead with Ranger. Toolik, a tan and white give-away from
Shaktoolik, ran swing next to Treker, a smart little female with a
peppy attitude. Trouble, a brown and black mutt with a notched left
ear for a fight trophy, teamed with Pepper, whose mild temper
Claire hoped would keep the scrapper pacified.

Next came the sunshine boys, Singer and
Riley. True to their nature, Singer tipped his head back in a
boisterous doggy song while Riley grinned at his Iditarod
volunteer. Zach, named after a friend of Matt's who died on Denali,
lunged in his harness and danced on his hind legs, eager to get
down the trail. Fast, with a die-hard drive, Claire paired the
compact husky with Ginny, a quiet, long-legged female who preferred
to remain invisible, but was a dependable follower. And in wheel
position, the even-tempered sisters, Sugar and Daisy.

A crew of veterinarians had examined the
dogs, and the race marshal inspected her sled for required gear,
which included a packet of U.S. mail to be delivered in Nome as
tribute to the carriers who used to deliver mail by dog teams.

Her Iditarider, Dr. Lee Osgood from Texas,
was bundled in the sled, ready for his eleven-mile thrill. Once
again, Claire prayed he didn't get more thrill than he paid for. In
tow a few feet behind her, Matt drove the tag sled. Janey and Andy
were in charge of getting the dog truck with the rest of her team
and gear to Campbell Airstrip, where they'd reload everything and
drive to Willow for tomorrow's official start. The open waters of
glacier-fed Knik River were often impassable for sled dogs, and the
Department of Transportation deemed it unsafe for mushers to use
the highway bridges, making the restart necessary.