While doing a visual inspection from twenty feet away doesn’t tell me much, I can see healthy white teeth and pink gums, no limps, and no ghastly wounds like the ones on Nymeria.
But these are his racing dogs, I remember. He might treat them differently from the ones who won’t take him across the finish line.
“Tyler Brady?” Howie asks.
“And you are …” The muffled question—a demand, really—is delivered with a brusque and slightly Midwestern twang. Montana or Wyoming. Certainly not Scandinavia.
“Howie Fulford. I’m an animal care officer for the borough.”
Tyler’s head swivels toward me, and though I can’t see his eyes through the iridescent shield, I feel them weighing on me.
I clear my throat. “I’m Marie Lehr, a local veterinarian who sometimes helps out Howie.”
“Helps out with what, exactly?” Tyler adjusts his stance and folds his arms across his chest. He’s made no effort to remove his gear yet, and it’s intimidating to face a masked man. “Cutting chains and trespassing on private property?”
Howie clears his throat. He also senses the tension radiating from this man. A man who stands a few inches over six feet, with a lean but sturdy frame. I’d hazard an athlete’s body hides beneath that one-piece suit. Someone who can compete in—and win—a thousand-mile race.
But Tyler doesn’t have the upper hand here, I remind myself. “Someone brought a female husky into my clinic this morning. They thought she might belong to you. Your—” I look to the young man scratching the head of one of the dogs. Is Reed his hired help? His son? Not likely, given he’s only called him Tyler, but I have no idea if Tyler is old enough to have a son this age. He’s still hidden from head to toe. “Reed confirmed that you’re missing a husky.”
“We are,” he says slowly, evenly.
“Is she yours?” Howie pipes in. “One blue eye, one brown? Blonde fur.”
Tyler is quiet for a moment, as if sizing him up. “Based on your description, sounds like her.”
Two of the other dogs have grown curious and now approach us cautiously, their heads bowed as they sniff the air. They have little red booties on to protect their feet during their run.
Howie gives one of them—a black elkhound—a hand to sniff. “Okay, well, we have some concerns for her welfare that I’d like to discuss with you.”
I brace myself for Tyler’s claims that she’s fine, well cared for. For us to mind our own goddamn business and get off his property.
He reaches up to tug off his goggles and balaclava, revealing a stony expression.
Despite my anger, my breath hitches. If I didn’t want this guy arrested and thrown in jail—and fined so severely that his bank accounts are empty for the next ten years after he gets out—I would consider him attractive. He must be around my age—midthirties—with a full head of dark ash-brown hair and a few days of scruff coating a face cut in sharp angles.
He turns to Reed. “You okay? They didn’t give you a hard time?”
“Yes. I mean, no, they weren’t too bad,” he stumbles over his words.
“Why don’t you head back to the barn and take care of the pups. I got this.” Tyler’s voice is decidedly softer while addressing him.
Reed rushes to the red building as if he can’t get away fast enough, calling to the dogs to follow. All trot after him except for the curly-tailed Laika, who seems more interested in us.
Tyler sighs heavily. “Let me guess, Harry Hatchett’s the one who brought her in and told you she was mine.”
“Does it matter?” I ask.
Piercing hazel eyes shift to study me. “One of my main competitors for a race with a half-million-dollar purse is trying to paint me an animal abuser so I get disqualified.” A sardonic smile twists his lips. “Yeah, I’d say that matters, wouldn’t you?”
“No one does the Iditarod for the money.” And no one person gets that whole amount. Unless you slide in with a first-place finish—which most don’t expect to have a chance at—you’re losing money the second you sign up.
“Harry seems like the type to have money on his mind,” he counters.
“Maybe he does,” I acknowledge. He has bills to pay and an assumed reputation to bolster with trophies. Being rid of Tyler would even the odds for him. “It doesn’t matter. What I care about is that dog in the back of our truck, and I’ve treated enough animals to know neglect when I see it.” It feels like a knife wound to my chest every time.