Iditarod Nights Read online

  The spooked look she saw on his face at McGrath had returned. She masked her concern behind a tired smile. "Tough run?" she asked.

  He expelled a heavy breath. "The hallucinations are hell."

  Claire smirked and lifted her hood to expose the goose egg on her forehead. "Tell me about it. I ducked a powerline that wasn't there coming into Ruby."

  "Ouch." He leaned in and brushed his chapped lips to the edge of the bruise.

  "What about you?" she asked when he pulled back.

  "It's not important."

  "That bad, huh?"

  He didn't answer.

  Claire shrugged to cover the sting of his unwillingness to talk. "Well, I'd better get my dogs taken care of," she said and turned away to grab a snubline.

  Dillon took her arm and coaxed her to face him. When she did, his haunted eyes implored her to understand. "If I don't talk about it," he said, his words measured, "then it's not important."

  Yes. She did understand. She knew how it felt to carry a wound so deep that bottling it up was the only way to deal with it. And she understood the destructive consequences of keeping it locked inside to fester.

  Lifting her chin, she pressed her mouth to his. Like kissing a snowman wearing medicated lip balm. "When you're ready to talk, I'm ready to listen."

  He gave a brief nod. "Take care of yourself out there."

  "You too."

  ***

  A ground blizzard drove snow and ice sideways through the narrow wind-tunnel of Kwik River valley, obliterating the trail. It tore at the little warmth remaining in Claire's exhausted limbs and scoured the exposed areas of her face with a gale of pellets like course sand.

  "Hey there, Zach," she shouted through her neck gaiter, "how're you doing? Riley, you still with us? How's that Pepper and Trouble doing up there?"

  They had endured frigid gusting winds on the barren coastline from Unalakleet to Shaktoolik, crossed pressure ridges serenaded by the unnerving sound of cracking sea ice over Norton Bay to Koyuk, and finally headed inland, hoping to make Elim checkpoint before dark. If they kept moving, they'd make it.

  The wind and cold weren't her only enemies as evening neared. Fatigue made every move and decision an effort in determination. Talking to her dogs helped her stay awake, if not alert. She wondered if this was how it felt to be an addict trying to go clean, her mind obsessed with that next fix – in her case, a good night's sleep – while her body just tried to survive.

  Her goggles frosted over. She swiped at the lenses but they frosted again within minutes. She lost sight of the trail markers, lost sight of Handsome and Ranger, then Toolik and Treker.

  Are we even going in the right direction anymore?

  She pulled her goggles off and attempted to peer through the fir edge of her parka hood. Ice crystals formed on her lashes and froze her right eye shut. She rubbed at it with her mitten and put her goggles back on. Unless the wind had changed direction, they were still headed toward Elim. She hoped.

  ***

  The trail across frozen Golovin Lagoon ran straight and monotonous. After the slow grind over Little McKinley and maneuvering an icy descent into the wind of the bay between Elim and Golovin, Dillon let his dogs set the pace. He peddled at the back of the sled as an endless stream of trail markers lead the way toward the flashing airport beacon of White Mountain checkpoint, seventy-seven miles from Nome and where they'd take their mandatory eight-hour layover. His face numbed by the wind that blew down the river, he felt caught in a time warp, his dogs running in slow motion, the beacon like a mirage in the desert, never getting any closer.

  As the afternoon lengthened, tedium set in and his mind drifted. He didn't want to think about the dead man but did anyway. He'd thought himself purged of the memory, or at least had it buried deep enough to stay unseen. But claustrophobia shadowed him, tried to trap him in a room he swore to never enter again. A room of nightmares and flashbacks and chaos.

  Shake it off, damn it.

  He realized his dogs had picked up their pace and the airport beacon was no longer a distant mirage. Checkpoints meant food and rest and attention from the locals, three items high on a dog's list of things to get excited about. They swung around a bend and saw White Mountain spread out along the bank of the river. Dillon checked in at 5:21 p.m., loaded his dropped bags onto the sled and followed the volunteer to the parking area. He went through the routine of feeding and bedding his team for the long stay as the sun set and darkness settled in.

  Later, he walked to the community hall in search of a hot meal. While he enjoyed a bowl of stew, he overheard a group of mushers talking about a ground blizzard between Koyuk and Elim – minus twenty-eight degrees, fifty-mile-an-hour winds.

  "Nothing's getting through there," one commented.

  "Anybody caught in it?" Dillon asked.

  "Maybe," a woman with loose dark hair and sleep-droopy eyelids replied. "That rookie lawyer should have checked in at Elim by now but nobody's seen her."

  Dillon's spoon stopped partway to his mouth, a sudden uncomfortable knot in his throat. "You mean Claire Stanfield?"

  "Yeah, that's the one."

  "What's her GPS tracker say?"

  "It's not moving."

  Chapter 20

  A maelstrom of white assaulted Claire as she searched for the reflection of a trail marker in the light of her headlamp. She needed to find shelter for herself and her dogs. There was supposed to be a cabin twenty-five miles from Elim, but she feared she could be standing right next to it and not see it. The longer they blindly thrashed on, the greater the odds of getting lost. If they weren't already. What if the wind had shifted? What if they'd been going in circles?

  Be strong for me.

  "Mama?" The wind ripped the question from her mouth, scattering it like confetti. "Mama, is that you?"

  Oh God, I'm hallucinating again. The thought sent a jag of panic through her. How could she take care of her dogs if she couldn't trust what she was seeing or hearing?

  They'd have to stop now, cabin or no cabin.

  "Whoa!"

  The dogs didn't need any further encouragement. Setting the snowhook, Claire made her way forward, shining her light on each dog, calling names as she went – Sugar, Daisy, Harmony, Sam. Putting the right name to the right dog helped her focus. Ginny, Mama's Boy, Zach. They wore their jackets against the heat-sucking wind. She checked ties and snaps, straightened and tightened where needed, checked booties, wiped a mitten over frosted faces.

  She reached the front of her team. "How's my Handsome man?" He cast her a doleful look as she de-iced his face. The poor guy had been taking the brunt of the weather, running lead with Ranger. He'd clearly had enough. Another jag of panic, stronger this time. Handsome was her rock. What would she do if he quit on her?

  She looked to his running mate, wiped ice from the little dog's mask. "How's my Lone Ranger doing? You've been here before. Any idea where that cabin is?"

  The wind howled, but the undaunted husky tossed his head and leaned into his harness as if eager to go. Matt told her Ranger was her best bet in blizzard conditions. She didn't fully appreciate that fact until she squinted in the direction the dog pointed and the light from her headlamp flashed across the board siding of a cabin. She blinked and looked again.

  "Holy crap, you did it!"

  ***

  His dogs slept. He needed sleep too. Every step took a monumental effort, every action a long, thought-out process, as he paced and waited. The Iditarod volunteer he questioned said Claire left Koyuk ten hours ago. Under normal conditions, that stretch of trail should take five to seven. She could be stopped at a shelter cabin, but there was no way to know for sure. Stopped could also mean waiting out the blizzard trailside just yards from a cabin she didn't see. Dillon knew she could take care of herself, but he also knew how bad things could go for even the most experienced musher.

  "Damn it, Claire. Where are you?"

  He vowed to tell her everything. No more secrets. Just let her
be safe.

  ***

  The sun warmed her face and made her head itchy. She loved August and loved digging up weeds, watering the tomatoes and picking lemon cucumbers. The cucumber leaves prickled her hands as she moved them back to see what they might be hiding. There, plump and round, dark yellow, almost toasty brown, on top. She pinched the cucumber from the vine, rubbed the tiny black spines off with her fingers and took a bite. Mama had her head under the green beans draping from the tall trellis, just her red shorts and tan legs showing. Mama had beautiful legs. Daddy said so all the time.

  "Honey, empty the colander for me, please?" she called.

  "Okay." She ran barefoot between the grow boxes of lettuce and spinach and took the colander full of green beans from her mama's outstretched hand. As she turned toward the picnic table, she stuck a long bean in her mouth and snapped the crisp skin between her teeth.

  Mama laughed, her head still hidden under the vines. "No wonder you're not hungry at mealtime."

  She liked the sound of Mama's laugh. Bells tinkling. That's what it reminded her of. A big bowl already half full of green beans waited on the picnic table. Another bowl was filled with cherry tomatoes. She took one and popped it into her cheek, then took another one and popped it into her other cheek. Chipmunk cheeks.

  "I need that colander back," Mama called. "Did you get lost?"

  She giggled. Silly Mama. You can't get lost in your own garden. "I'm coming!"

  I'm not lost...

  Claire woke. Not in the garden, but in darkness. The taste of cherry tomatoes lingered in her mouth. She reached for her headlamp and turned it on. After securing her dogs and sled on the sheltered side of the cabin, she had spread out her sleeping bag inside and fallen asleep.

  "I'm not lost," she said to the quiet.

  Silence answered her.

  "The wind's stopped." She flung back her sleeping bag and shoved her feet into icy boots. Time to get back in the race. I'm coming, Mama!

  ***

  "You're the guy sweet on that lady lawyer, aren't you?"

  Dillon looked up from smearing salve on Rocky's paw. He recognized the musher standing over him as one of the two who'd ribbed him for shaving at McGrath checkpoint. "Has there been news?"

  The musher grinned through his shaggy moustache. "Looks like you're gonna need to dig that razor out. She and her team made it to Elim safe and sound."

  Chapter 21

  Fifty-five miles separated White Mountain from Safety checkpoint. The trail climbed barren, exposed ridges, ran along twelve miles of the shore's driftwood line subject to eighty-mile-an-hour gales and white-outs, and moved through a series of natural wind tunnels, "blow holes," localized and violent, much like the ground blizzard Claire experienced between Koyuk and Elim. It was a stretch of trail that could make or break a musher within a few hours of reaching Nome.

  Knowing this made Dillon more conscious than ever of the weather report when he prepped his team to leave White Mountain checkpoint. Calm conditions. At 1:21 a.m., he and his dogs headed out, ending their final mandatory stop.

  As they rounded the shelter of the hill behind White Mountain, a place where north winds were common, the weather report proved accurate. The wind remained calm until the descent onto Topkok River, where they hit glare ice and twenty-mile-an-hour gusts blasted them sideways. Dillon wrestled into his wind jacket and turned his headlamp on to locate the reflective tripod markers. "Gee, Deshka! Gee!" he shouted when he realized the wind had pushed them off course.

  Behind him bobbed the headlights of three other mushers. If he lost the trail, he'd have company.

  Two hours later, the gusts let up and one headlight caught and passed Dillon's team. In his wind-battered exhaustion, he couldn't tell who the musher was. The other two teams following them dropped back.

  The weather held as they traveled the driftwood line that separated them from the sea ice and open water. The moon came out, bathing the vast shore in ghostly white radiance. Dillon turned off his headlamp. As his dogs ran, nostalgia set in. He was almost home, the place he'd taken refuge. This place, Alaska, was as close to heaven as he figured he'd ever get. He wanted to share it with Claire, wanted a chance for whatever they had together to become more. But any hope of that happening stemmed on his being truthful with her.

  The whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  Talking about his past opened a door he didn't want to go through. But the beast he'd locked up had begun pushing its way out, pushing against its years of solitary confinement. He didn't know how much longer he could keep it contained. The beast scared him. But losing Claire scared him more.

  Moonlight had given way to sunrise when Dillon and his team reached Safety checkpoint. He treated his dogs to a quick snack and put on his bib for the final twenty-two miles to Nome. The dogs sensed home and didn't waste any time getting back on the trail.

  "You know where we're at, don't you, Deshka." Her ears flicked at the sound of her name. "Guy, you old hound. I bet you're dreaming of a cushy nap!"

  They followed the Nome-to-Council road past Cape Nome, where they encountered moderate wind at their backs before cutting down to the beach. The light towers of the airport blinked in the distance. Two miles out, Dillon heard the fire department siren announce their approach.

  "Almost there, kids!"

  They swung up a ramp with life-size gnome cutouts holding signs that said "Mush ahead to a warm bed" and "There's no place like Nome." Amen to that, Dillon thought. "Haw!"

  The team turned left onto Front Street and headed for the burled arch half a mile away. A white police vehicle, red and blue lights flashing, escorted them to the finish chute where Dillon spotted Frank waiting. He'd know that wild red hair and beard anywhere.

  "Welcome back!" Frank hollered.

  "Thanks! How's Bonnie?"

  Frank fell into a trot alongside the sled. "She's doing good. Mav too. Course Clyde perked up as soon as he saw his sister."

  People lined the fenced chute the final couple hundred feet. Some called him by name – neighbors, shop owners, people he was sure he knew but his tired brain couldn't place. Deshka passed under the burled arch and Dillon stopped the sled. Time, 11:31 a.m. They'd finished the race in ten days, twenty hours, and thirty-one minutes, placing twenty-third.

  A checker congratulated him and began to inventory his gear. Volunteers held his sled so he could walk the length of his team, give each dog an ear rub or pat on the head. "Good job, Pete." "That's my Blackie." "There's Elliot with energy to spare." When he got to Deshka, he dropped to his knees in the snow and wrapped his arms around the husky's neck. "I couldn't have done it without you, girl." She licked his frosted check.

  He stood and saw Janey and Andy. The boy gave him a hug that challenged his worn-out legs. "You made it!"

  "Hey, sport."

  Janey beamed. "Congratulations. Matt wanted to be here, but somebody had to mind the store at home."

  "Thanks for coming." Dillon swallowed the lump in his throat, feeling stupid for getting emotional. He blamed it on fatigue. "It's good to be home."

  Janey pulled the man standing behind her forward. He looked uncomfortable in his new arctic gear, bundled up so tight only his face showed. To someone who'd come off the frozen sea ice moments earlier, Nome's 7 degrees felt balmy, but Dillon didn't figure the man wanted to hear that. He belongs in an expensive suit, commanding the attention of a judge and jury, in a city where it rains a lot.

  Dillon's intuition proved correct when Janey made introductions.

  "Dillon Cord, this is Ethan Stanfield, Claire's father."

  Mr. Stanfield extended his gloved hand. "Congratulations on finishing the race."

  He had a firm grip, even through thick layers of insulation. "Thank you, sir. Welcome to Nome. I need to take care of my dogs and get a shower, but come by the Bering West later and I'll buy you a drink."

  The older man hunched further into his parka, like a turtle drawing into its shell. "Make that a hot drink an
d you've got a deal."

  The dogs were taken down the street to a team of veterinarians for a thorough check out. A drug testing team took urine samples. Then Dillon and Frank trucked them home to Frank's kennel yard to eat and rest.

  He should have been dead on his feet, ready to curl up like his team of athletes and sleep for twenty hours, but Dillon's system was still on race time – run, rest, feed, check feet, do it all over again, twenty-four hours, day after day. Now nothing stood between him and his bed over the Bering West.

  Except that Claire was still out there, on the trail.

  And he had to buy a man a drink. He couldn't say what compelled him to make the offer. Did he hope to influence Ethan Stanfield in some way? Convince him his daughter should stay in Alaska?

  Maybe he just wanted to meet the guy Claire held dear to her heart. Find out what it was about him that had her willing to turn her back on everything else.

  Chapter 22

  Dillon couldn't say what he expected Claire's dad to be like – a hardnosed tyrant, a money-hungry suit, an iron-fisted bully. None of those clichés fit the man who walked into the Bering West and sat at the bar later that afternoon. Most of the half dozen tables were occupied even midday because of Iditarod activities around town. The young couple at the bar were tourists from Minnesota. Marty Robbins sang El Paso on the jukebox and the aroma of fresh ground coffee beans mingled with the pervasive smell of hops.

  Frank started over to take Ethan Stanfield's order. "I've got this," Dillon said and turned to his guest. "Glad you could make it. What'll it be?"

  "Coffee, please. Black and strong." Stanfield unbuttoned his parka and swiveled on the barstool to take in his surroundings. "You have an interesting place here, Mr. Cord."