Iditarod Nights Page 10

  He'd done his best to replicate an old west saloon. Decks of cards on round wood tables surrounded by an assortment of straight-backed chairs invited the occasional poker game. A brass boot rail ran the length of the polished bar. Behind the bar, rows of liquor bottles reflected in the long, etched mirror. Some might question a man with his history owning a tavern. That is, if anyone knew his history. The tavern was testament to himself that he'd put his drinking days behind him.

  "The tourists like it," he said, and tossed two coasters with the logo of a compass pointing west onto the bar. He set a thick ironstone mug on each and nodded toward the historical photographs of Nome. "People still migrate here after the thaw to pan for gold."

  Stanfield pulled deeper into his parka. "No offense, but it would take more than the illusive chance of striking it rich on a chunk of mineral for me to vacation this close to the arctic, no matter what time of year."

  "None taken." Dillon shrugged and commented, "It's not bad once the sea ice thaws."

  The older man barked a laugh. "Good God." He lifted the coffee Dillon poured. "What makes a man choose to live in such a bleak, isolated place?"

  You're not welcome in this house. "The isolation."

  "One man's harsh and bleak is another man's safe haven." Stanfield took a sip, gave a long sigh. "That hits the spot."

  Dillon returned the carafe and sipped from his own mug. Strong and hot. "Couldn't get enough of this on the trail."

  "What's it like out there?"

  He saw the concern of a parent for a child in Stanfield's eyes. But if the man was anything like his daughter, a candy-coated answer wouldn't fly. "I can tell you it was forty below with a wind chill factor that made it feel like minus eighty, but until you've experienced it, those are just numbers." There were no words to describe the incredible, harsh conditions. The sleep deprivation. Hallucinations. "When you're in it, all you think about is surviving. And when it's over, you're already planning the next race."

  Stanfield's head came up, his gaze sharp. "No."

  "Sir?"

  "I can't go through this again."

  "Is that why you made Claire promise to return to Portland?"

  Gravity pulled at the man's face. "Her idea, not mine." He lifted his mug and paused before drinking, as though giving himself time to choose his next words. "Did she tell you anything about her mother?"

  "No, sir."

  "My wife, Caroline, had cancer. Very aggressive cancer. Claire was eleven when her mother went in for a risky surgical procedure. Caroline promised our daughter she'd see her again soon, a promise she wasn't able to keep."

  "It must have been hard on both of you."

  "Terrifying," Stanfield admitted. "I lost the only woman I'd ever loved and suddenly found myself with an eleven-year-old girl to raise. I made a lot of mistakes, but we survived. And since her mother's death, Claire has been unyielding, to the point of obsessive, about keeping promises."

  "She didn't want you to feel abandoned."

  Stanfield nodded and sipped his coffee.

  Dillon saw the man's hand shake and looked away. Jealousy dug at him. A jealousy he had no right to. He had nobody but himself to blame for the break in his relationship with his parents. Still, he couldn't stop from saying, "You didn't try to talk her out of it."

  " I won't lie, I would miss her. But my daughter's good at what she does. Better than good. I'd hate to see her give it up for..." He hesitated, considered. Tammy Wynette belted Stand By Your Man and he sighed. "Less."

  Dillon should have taken offense, but he understood where the man was coming from. And with that understanding came the knowledge that he would not be the one to get between Claire and her dad. Where that left him in the equation, he didn't have a clue.

  "Have I answered your question, Mr. Cord?"

  "Yes, sir." He reached for the carafe. "Refill?"

  "Thank you but no." Stanfield stood and buttoned his parka. "I've kept you long enough. You must be exhausted."

  Dillon shook the man's hand, said, "It was a pleasure," and meant it. "Claire will be happy to see you."

  "Stunned is more like it. Maybe a game of poker later?"

  "Not if you're the one who taught Claire how to play."

  Stanfield grinned. "How much did she take you for?"

  "A box of matches."

  "Well, I can assure you, your odds are better with me. I taught my daughter the basics of the game. The finer points she figured out for herself. I suppose I could take somewhat dubious comfort knowing that if she gets tired of being an attorney, she can support herself as a card shark."

  Dillon chuckled. "I don't doubt that."

  Chapter 23

  Shortly after 5:30 the next morning, Claire and her dogs rounded the corner onto Front Street. People clapped and cheered their arrival. In the predawn darkness, crisscrossed strands of multicolored lights overhead dotted the chute in festive bursts of red, blue and green. Claire stopped her team under the burled arch, exhausted, cold, and grinning wide enough to crack the ice on her face.

  "Welcome to Nome," the checker said.

  "Thank you." A man bundled in a new parka and ski pants approached. "Daddy?"

  "Peanut." He staggered at the force of her hug. "You've lost weight," he said, patting her back. She pressed wind-chapped lips to his cheek and he gasped. "God, you're an ice cube!"

  She laughed. "It's good to see you too."

  Janey and Andy greeted her at the same time. When she scanned the crowd for Dillon, Janey pointed over and up to the balcony of a two-story wood building a few yards away, the Bering West. Claire's heart took a small lurch when she recognized Dillon standing at the railing. He gave her two thumbs up and she waved.

  "He's treating us all to breakfast later," Janey commented. "Anything we want, he said."

  Claire prayed the rush of heat up her neck didn't melt the ice crystals clinging to her cheeks. She turned away and got to the business of thanking her dogs, completing her check-in and getting her team settled in the dog yard. Her official time: eleven days, fourteen hours and eight minutes. She finished her first Iditarod in thirty-fourth place.

  ***

  During the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race, Nome's population of 3,500 swells by 1,000 or more people from all over, looking for an opportunity to rub shoulders with famous mushers and take part in dozens of events – fine art shows, native crafts, sing-a-longs, Idita-Rides, Idit-A-Shoots, helicopter tours, hoedowns and hulas – turning the coastal city into the "Mardi Gras of the North."

  And all those people needed to eat. Dillon donned an apron and began mixing a massive batch of pancake batter, while Vic prepped tomatoes, onions and ham for country scrambled eggs. A breakfast crowd – both tourists and regulars – had already begun to form outside.

  "It's been like this all week," Vic groused, his knife rapping the cutting board like a woodpecker on caffeine. He'd pulled his long, gray-streaked hair into a braid at his back, his thick arms bare to the shoulders, exposing the tattoo of a woman's name – Reta – on his right bicep.

  Some day Dillon planned to ask about Reta. Some day when he drummed up enough courage. "You love it," he said, to which his cook gave a boisterous hoot. "Besides, it's good for business."

  "Good enough for a raise?"

  "Dream on."

  Damn, it felt good to be home. Comfortable. The routine, the bantering, keeping busy. There was nothing wrong with falling back on routine while deciding what the hell to do next.

  Helen and Kristi swung into action as soon as the doors opened, showing people to tables and taking orders.

  "Order!" Helen bellowed. "So who's the looker at table two?" she asked in a loud whisper. Just about everything the woman did was a low roar.

  Dillon had reserved table two for Claire and her group. He knew which one of the bunch he'd choose as "the looker" but doubted it was the same one Helen had her eye on. "You'll have to be more specific."

  "Nice build, gorgeous gray hair. In my age neighborhood."


  Helen's age neighborhood was vague, at best. Dillon knew she had at least a decade on the "40" she put on her job application, but he let it slide. The woman knew how to waitress and customers liked her. That's all he cared about. "Name's Ethan Stanfield," he said. "He's an attorney from Portland, Oregon."

  "Is he spoken for?"

  "Not that I'm aware of." The conversation he'd had with Claire's dad yesterday afternoon led him to believe the man still mourned his deceased wife. What was it like to love somebody that deep? He figured his brash, outspoken employee had as much chance of attracting Stanfield as a moose had of flying, but what did he know? His own experience in the romance department didn't count for much.

  Helen grinned and waggled her eyebrows.

  "Be nice," Dillon told her.

  "Aren't I always?"

  Dillon chuckled. "You don't really want me to answer that, do you?"

  "Hell no!"

  A few minutes later, he turned toward the pick-up counter with a loaded plate of food in each hand, and stopped short of colliding with Claire.

  "Whoa! Sorry," she said, taking a quick step back.

  But not so quick he didn't have time to plant a kiss on her forehead before she got out of range. "Good morning." He set the plates on the counter. "Orders up!" He turned back and saw Claire standing to the side, looking uncertain. Tired. Irresistible.

  "Helen said it was okay. If I'm – "

  He hauled her close, whispered, "It's okay," and kissed her for real, full on the mouth. She tasted of coffee with a dollop of Claire for sweetness.

  "I missed you," she said on a breath.

  His heart bumped. "Me too." He kissed her again. Deeper. The uncertainty of tomorrow warned him to go slow, but that was damn near impossible when he had her curves pressed against him, warm and smelling like lavender soap.

  A wolf whistle pierced the air.

  Dillon flinched, felt Claire's smile on his mouth. He eased his hold with a sigh and shot a glare at Helen.

  She winked, picked up the orders and sauntered off.

  Still looking amused, Claire commented, "I thought you didn't cook."

  "He doesn't!" Vic hollered.

  "I can hold my own in the kitchen."

  Vic grunted. "Is that why my sausages are lookin' like desiccated dog turds?"

  "Damn it." Dillon made introductions as he scraped burnt links into the garbage. "Claire, this is Vic. Vic, Claire."

  Vic flashed her a grin. "Charmed, darlin'."

  Claire gave a smile and quick wave. "Nice to meet you." She moved toward the door. "I'd better let you get back to...cooking."

  Dillon shot her a smile. "Catch you later?"

  "Absolutely."

  ***

  The dining area of the Bering West consisted of half a dozen booths and eight tables, every one of them occupied. The combination of gnarled polished wood and red vinyl gave it a homey atmosphere that Claire found appealing. Unlike its modern, stainless kitchen, tarnished gold pans and pick axes hung beside framed sepia prints of bearded prospectors and their pack mules, testaments to Nome's history as a booming mining town. Bat-wing doors reminiscent of a Dodge City saloon, circa 1800s, separated the bar from the restaurant.

  A young lady who looked barely out of high school worked one end of the dining area, her blonde ponytail swinging behind her, while the woman who introduced herself as Helen worked the side where Claire, her dad, Janey and Andy were shown to their reserved table. Helen was the one who invited Claire to go back to the kitchen when asked about Dillon, then whistled when she caught them kissing. Helen was the one who now flirted with Claire's dad.

  Claire had never seen her dad flustered before. He didn't seem to quite know how to handle Helen's advances. Women had come on to him in the past, of course. After all, he was handsome in a distinguished, business-suit way. Fit, though you couldn't tell it at the moment, not under all the ridiculous layers he wore to keep warm. He didn't raise his voice, except on rare occasion to argue a point in court. Generous. Honest.

  And utterly out of his element. Claire found it charming. She liked Helen. Short auburn curls cut in a no-nonsense, easy-care style, eyes that welcomed friends and strangers with equal warmth but missed nothing, a pink flannel shirt and denim blue jeans that complimented her mature curves. She moved with the confidence of a woman comfortable in herself and her surroundings. And she wasn't wasting any time making her intensions clear – a light touch here, a wink there, extra care pouring and serving – as she laid out enormous plates of pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage, milk for Andy, and all the coffee the adults could drink.

  Janey's eyebrows appeared to be locked in the upright position for the duration of the meal as she watched the flirtation play out. Claire loved it. A match even her matchmaking friend hadn't predicted.

  "More coffee, honey?"

  Claire looked up and realized Helen was addressing her. "Yes, please."

  Helen gave her a knowing smile and Claire felt her cheeks heat. The woman filled her cup and topped off Janey's before sauntering over to Claire's dad. "Anything for dessert?" she asked him.

  Claire couldn't have said what about the question implied more than a slice of pie being offered – maybe the uncharacteristic softness in Helen's voice when she said dessert – but her dad's face turned as bright as his classic-red flannel shirt.

  He cleared his throat. Swallowed hard enough for Claire to hear his Adam's apple bounce. "Just coffee...for now, thank you."

  "A rain check then?" Helen refilled his cup, not missing a beat. "My treat."

  "I, uh..." He cleared his throat again and cut his eyes in Claire's direction.

  Don't look at me! I've got my own love life to figure out. Remembering the promise in Dillon's kiss sent another rush of heat to her face. She glanced away for fear her dad might see.

  "Yes. I'd like that," she heard him tell Helen.

  Janey sputtered in her coffee. Claire felt her mouth drop open and closed it.

  "I'd like some dessert!" Andy announced, clearly annoyed at being left out.

  Helen gave a merry laugh. "Of course, sugar. How 'bout a big chocolate chip cookie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, and another glass of milk to wash it down?"

  "Yes, ma'am!"

  Helen looked to Janey, who nodded her consent. "I'll be right back."

  Chapter 24

  He worked through the lunch shift before Vic kicked him out. "You're dead on your feet and in my way," his cook grumbled. "I can handle the kitchen 'til Martha's shift. Been doin' it that way the entire time you were out playing with your dogs. Guess I can do it that way awhile longer. Besides," he waved a pair of tongs at him, "you need to rest up for that lady you're meeting later. You look like hell."

  The man was right. Dillon could just about keep his eyes open, and he royally screwed up that last order. "All right then. Don't disturb me unless the place is on fire." He didn't hear Vic's response as he headed for the back stairway. No need to. He already knew it would be brief and colorful. Yeah, it was good to be home.

  Once he reached his apartment on the second floor, he made for bed, stumbling out of his shoes on the way. His eyes closed before he felt the pillow beneath his head. He slept deep and hard...until the nightmare woke him three hours later.

  ***

  After breakfast, Claire went to the room Janey had reserved for her and slept. She'd almost forgotten how wonderful a real mattress felt. Softness cushioning her body. Quiet. Warmth. Two and a half hours later, she woke with a jolt, certain her dogs needed tending. When she realized her mistake, that her adventure was over, sadness had her wrestling to get comfortable.

  Then it was time to get up and help Janey and Andy prep the dogs and take them, and her dad, to the airport for their flight home. She hugged and thanked each dog again for getting her to Nome safely. She'd see them all in a couple days, when she flew back to Sommer Kennels after the mushers' banquet, but that didn't stop the tears. Every passing minute brought her ti
me in Alaska closer to an end. It hurt.

  "Don't cry, Auntie Claire," Andy said, throwing his arms around her waist. "It'll be okay."

  "I know it will, hon. I'm just going to miss you," she knelt and kissed his cheek, "a whole bunch."

  "You can stay and have my room forever," he offered.

  Claire gave a laugh that sounded like a sob. "I appreciate that." Straightening, she hugged her dad. "I'm so glad you were here to see me finish the race."

  "I am too, peanut. I'm proud of you."

  And once again tears sprang to her eyes. " Thank you, Daddy. Have a safe – "

  "Tell me I haven't missed him!" Helen's voice interrupted from across the concourse. She rushed to Claire's dad, grabbed his face in her hands and pressed her lips to his. The kiss left them both clinging to each other.

  Claire heard Helen whisper, "Don't be a stranger." Her dad's response was too low to make out. But judging by the saucy swing to Helen's sufficient hips as she walked away, it must have been what the woman wanted to hear.

  "Daddy?"

  He gave her a quick sidelong glance before returning his gaze to Helen's retreating backside. Claire hadn't seen such a dopey, contented look in his eyes since...well, since Mama.

  "What happened between you two while I was asleep?" she asked.

  He quirked a smile. "A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."

  Claire looked at Janey in stunned amusement. "Did you know about this?"

  Janey opened her mouth, but it was Andy who answered, "Mom set it up! She said – "

  Janey slapped her hand over her son's mouth. "Little boys should mind their own business," she warned, her face as bright as an over-ripe peach.

  They were laughing when the Anchorage flight was announced for boarding. But by the time Claire had dispensed another round of hugs and kisses, her tears returned.