Iditarod Nights Page 5

  So lightheaded...

  The room tipped and the black curtain drew together. A strong arm circled her waist and kept her from diving to the floor.

  "Let's get out of here." Dillon's breath brushed her ear.

  Claire nodded. He grabbed their coats and guided her out to the parking area. Bracing herself against the side of the Land Cruiser, Claire gulped the crisp night air and felt her head clear.

  "Better?"

  "Yes. Thanks." She gave a self-conscious laugh and rubbed her arms. "I don't know what came over me."

  Dillon helped her into her parka. "Too much excitement, too little sleep. I'm having the same problem."

  She cast him a skeptical look. "Seriously?"

  He shrugged into his own parka. "Seriously."

  "I just thought, since you'd done this before – "

  "I'd be used to it?" He leaned against the side of the Land Cruiser, his shoulder pressed to hers. "If anything, it's worse. I've been there. I know what to expect. Happy River, Dalzell Gorge, the Buffalo Tunnels. I almost scratched at Kaltag my first year. The wind and cold on the Yukon was brutal."

  "Then why keep coming back?"

  He looked up at the night sky; Claire looked at him. It was easy to do. "There's a raw beauty on the Iditarod Trail you won't find anywhere else. You'll discover what you're made of." The intensity in his eyes when he looked back at her stole her breath. "And you'll never be the same when it's over."

  She felt it even now. Her work with the dogs. Time spent absorbing the culture and uniqueness of Alaska. She was already changed. Alaska had gotten into her blood.

  And so had this man. She knew too little about him, outside of a past he refused to discuss and an ex-wife who resented his job, whatever that may have been. She didn't like secrets, especially the kind that might pop up to bite her on the ass when least expected.

  But she could still taste his kiss.

  A shiver ran through her and she glanced away.

  "You're cold," he said. "Let's get in."

  Claire felt time press down on her as she gazed out the passenger window at the waning moon. She'd heard Iditarod nights were the worst. Bitter winds, incredible loneliness, cold intense enough to freeze alcohol. In the past few days, there'd been little time to worry about it, with the pre-race veterinary check at Iditarod Headquarters in Wasilla yesterday, the dogs examined and wormed, proof of vaccinations, health certificates and microchip ID. Brian brought the Warren truck over and helped Dillon transport his team, while Claire and Matt took her team in the Sommers' truck.

  Then early this morning she and Dillon drove the hundred miles to Anchorage to attend the mandatory mushers' meeting, a chaotic assembly of rookies and veterans, officials laying out rules, veterinarians speaking on dog care. Claire remembered very little of what was said. The whole affair went on for hours, with a break midday for pictures with their Iditariders. A fifty-eight-year-old doctor from Texas paid for the privilege of racing the first eleven miles of the Iditarod with Claire. She only hoped she didn't dump him out of the sled on the first sharp turn. Dillon's Iditarider was a mother of three from Fairbanks.

  The banquet began at 6:00. Mushers dined on boneless beef ribs and drew for their starting positions. Out of almost seventy mushers participating in the race, Claire would be the twenty-second team to leave Anchorage Saturday morning. Dillon drew number eighteen.

  Saturday morning. The day after tomorrow. Claire felt like a green rookie, with the emphasis on green. Nerves churned the contents of her stomach. She'd come close to fainting, for God's sake. She cast Dillon a look from the corner of her eye. The Land Cruiser's dash lights shadowed the angles of his face, sharpening his features. He drove with both hands on the steering wheel. Strong hands. Her body suffused with heat, remembering their heart-stopping tenderness.

  "You alright?" he asked.

  The intimacy in his voice threw her already-busy hormones into overtime. She cleared her throat. "I'm fine. Did you get your shopping done this afternoon?"

  "Yeah." He pulled a small paper bag from a pocket of his parka and tossed it in her lap.

  She looked inside. "A box of matches?"

  "I always pay my debts."

  "There's three hundred here. The debt was only two fifty."

  "Interest."

  "Twenty percent? Steep. Generous, but steep." Claire put the matches in her pocket. "About the other day – "

  "I don't regret it."

  She stared at him, felt her face grow warm when she realized he was referring to the kiss. "Nor do I," she admitted.

  "But that's not what you wanted to talk about, is it?"

  "I..." She tucked at her hair. "No." That doesn't mean I haven't thought about it, she wanted to tell him, but fear held her back. The emotions were too raw yet, too uncertain.

  "What did you want to talk about?"

  "When I told you about the murder case, how did you know?" Then at his confused look, "That I regretted my client's life sentence, while his victims got death." They were tortured before they died.

  Don't personalize the case, Claire. Let it go and move on.

  "It's how I would have felt. The need to avenge the innocent. It eats at you."

  Yes. It ate at her. Haunted her in spite of all the well-meaning advice.

  The night sky shimmered to life, a curtain of greens, swirling and waving like colored sheets hanging from the line on laundry day. Dillon pulled to the side of the road and stopped. He left the engine running, the heater fan blowing warmth across their faces. The green waves of light shifted direction, took on a reddish hue at the edges.

  "I never get tired of seeing that," Claire whispered, as though saying it too loud might cause it to disappear.

  "The first time I saw the Northern Lights, I was on some back road, lost, trying to read an Anchorage city map." He grinned, the lights turning his teeth an eerie green. "I was a cab driver at the time."

  Claire burst out a laugh.

  "I didn't have the job very long. Then I took a job selling snowmachines, but I sucked at sales." He paused, as though drawn inside a memory. His smile flattened. "The only thing I was ever good at was being a cop," he said in a subdued voice. "But I fucked that up too."

  While Claire grappled for a response, the Northern Lights faded and Dillon put the Land Cruiser in gear. The hard set to his profile didn't encourage questions. He'd closed himself off again. It was evident he hadn't intended to reveal as much as he did, that if he could take it back, he would. In a heartbeat.

  Okay, she'd guessed right about the cop part. Now what? That it hadn't worked out for him could mean just about anything. Maybe avenging the innocent, as he put it. At least now she understood his animosity toward lawyers. She'd butted heads with her share of disgruntled officers over legal issues, especially when she got between them and a confession.

  "So," she said, reminded of her vow not to grill him for details, "given your habit of fucking things up, should I avoid eating at the Bering West when I get to Nome?"

  His startled laugh released the tension between them. "You're safe," he told her. "I've got an outstanding cook."

  ***

  It was almost midnight when Dillon pulled into Sommer Kennels. He shut off the Land Cruiser's engine and Claire's head came up. She frowned as if disoriented, then yawned wide.

  "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 Anch
orage 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?