“And a monumental win it is! A thirty-seven-year-old rookie crossing under the Burled Arch with his full team …” The questions drift into another direction—about the race’s challenges, about what his postrace routine looks like, about next year—and I only half listen.
Tyler would have been about thirty-five when he lost his wife. Not just her, either. A son, too. How did it happen? Did he drive her to the hospital, their hands clasped, their senses buzzing with excitement and nerves, and all the possibilities for years to come, of a full life together?
Only to drive home alone?
Mila’s bag in the trunk, empty car seat in the back.
No wife.
No child.
What would she say about all he’s accomplished in her honor?
How often does he think about her?
I can’t imagine the pain that must consume him from the moment he wakes until he drifts off at night.
How do you get over something like that?
Not in two years, you don’t.
Possibly never.
My life is the way I want it. Uncomplicated.
Our last parting is beginning to make more sense. Maybe I wasn’t imagining everything after all. Maybe there was a spark of interest there, at least a physical one, but it’s clear he’s still living for his wife.
For a ghost.
I can’t compete with a ghost.
I’ll never win.
I don’t even want to try.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
June
“Linda told me they were interested, but that was back in January.” Harry scowls at Ginger, an aptly named husky with tawny fur, but his thoughts are not on the dog.
“Then give her a call.”
“I did. Twice.” His eyes cut to me. “Left a message, too. She hasn’t called me back yet. Same with Sam, and he was talking about taking a couple.”
I know he’s hoping I’ll have an explanation to ease his worries. This is what happens during my visits to the Hatchetts’ kennel—Harry unloads his problems and looks to me for answers and reassurance. “She did scratch in this year’s race, and she’s getting up there in age. Maybe she’s thinking retirement soon, which means it doesn’t make sense to bring on a new dog. She’s raced, what, nine or ten times?”
“Twelve.”
“There you go. That’s a lot for anyone.”
Harry works his jaw over his brooding thoughts. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
I collect my black medical bag and begin heading toward my truck. My job here is finished, and my afternoon is full of appointments at the clinic.
Harry lumbers beside me. Clearly, he’s not finished yet. “And Gary was talking about signing up for the next Iditarod and taking Dodger and Sailor, but I haven’t heard from him, either.”
“Gary Seymore?” The volunteer from Cripple?
“Yeah. He did the qualifiers with the two of them and made decent time.”
The two huskies in question are standing on top of their respective houses, watching Harry’s hired help—a twenty-one-year-old named Benji with aspirations to race the Iditarod one day—check water dishes. They’re solid lead dogs. Obviously not Harry’s best, which he uses for his own team.
“I agreed to give him a referral and everything.” Harry shrugs, like he doesn’t understand what else could be stopping Gary from racing next year.
“He has time to commit. And four grand just to sign up is a lot. Plus your fees for those two.”
He smooths a hand over the back of his neck. “What am I gonna do, if I keep breeding and training these dogs, and no one wants them?” He sounds less like the cocky ass who grins at spectators and more like the gangly boy who used to trail around Earl, hanging on to his every word.
“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself,” I say calmly. “You have great sled dogs, and everyone knows that.”
“My father never had this issue. People were lined up for our dogs when he was alive.” His eyes drift over the property. “If I’d won this year’s race, this wouldn’t be an issue. I should have won. I don’t know what happened.”
Tyler beat him. That’s what happened, plain and simple. And in the months that have followed, I’ve heard Tyler’s name on more than one musher’s lips, along with questions about what the champion’s “stock” is like and whether he’ll be breeding or renting out his dogs.
It wasn’t only Tyler who beat him, though. Harry didn’t come in second. He came in fourth.
The truth is, Hatchett Kennels still produces top talent sled dogs—Harry knows how to train them—and many of the best mushers have lineage from here, but people have been lured away by the new and shiny—the Iditarod champion who relocated to Alaska with dogs of fresh lineage.