“But it’s not what I want. I like being my own boss. I like having flexibility.” Not that Wade would ever stop me from volunteering at the Iditarod. I’ve already accepted my invitation for next year’s race.
Yukon and Bentley take off after another marmot, ignoring Dad’s commanding whistle.
“These dogs,” he mutters, stepping over a crop of stones, the leashes dangling from his grasp. “How many years, and they haven’t figured out that they’ll never win against those little rodents—”
The stones roll beneath his boot, and my father loses his footing. He falls to the ground with a sickening crack.
“Dad!” I rush to him, collecting his wire-rimmed glasses off the ground, my adrenaline kicking in. His grimace of pain only amplifies my fears that it was no ordinary tumble. “Your ankle?”
“My leg,” he forces out between gritted teeth, tugging on his pants to ease up the hem.
“Oh, Dad.” I grimace at the ghastly display. His tibia has snapped like a twig, one end of it broken through his skin. Blood streams down his leg.
“I can’t see a thing.” He collects his glasses from my grasp and slides them back on, fussing for a moment to adjust before realizing that the frame is bent and giving up. “Would you look at that.”
“This is a bad break. We need to staunch that and get you help.” I check my phone, even though I know there’s no signal up here.
He winces as he shifts, unbuckling his belt and tugging it free. “I knew I wore my good leather one for a reason today.” He loops it around his thigh and fashions a tourniquet to stem the blood flow.
The dogs have abandoned their hunt for rodents and trotted to sit by my father’s side. Yukon whines, his nose dipping toward Dad’s leg.
“Oh, so now you two decide to come,” he grumbles but spares a moment to pat each of them on the head. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. Seventy-four years old and I’ve forgotten how to walk.”
I peer behind us, toward the road. We’re half a mile away. Too far for an injury like this unless there’s no other choice. “I’m going to get help. Someone will drive by soon enough.” I fasten the dogs to their leashes and then loop the handles around my father’s fist. “Just stay here. And keep your hands off it,” I warn. My father’s been known to skip medical professionals and stitch himself up from time to time, but there’s not a lot he can do out here.
“I’ll try my best,” my father says, a joking lilt in his tone, despite his grimace.
*
With mounting frustration, I check the time again. I’ve been pacing this desolate dirt road for fifteen minutes without a single vehicle passing. Most days in June, I’d be complaining that it’s too busy.
All I need is one car. One person to drive by.
If I’d just started walking toward the parking lot, I’d have reached my car by now. From there, it’s a short drive to the lodge and help.
Regret burns inside as I contemplate standing here any longer until I decide I can’t wait for someone. I’m about to head to the car when I spot a familiar white-and-green pickup truck in the far distance, creeping along the winding road. It’s a park ranger. Even better than a random tourist. Relief envelops me as I jump and wave frantically. It’s already heading in this direction, but I need it to move faster.
The park ranger vehicle eases to a stop—there’s little room to pull over.
The man driving hops out.
My jaw drops as I take in Tyler’s face. “What are you doing here?”
He smirks. “I would’ve thought the truck and the uniform are pretty self-explanatory.”
“Yeah, but …” I take in the standard khaki-brown and green ranger uniform, the bulletproof vest, the sidearm strapped to his hip. He’s wearing a baseball cap rather than the broad-rimmed campaign hat, with State Park Ranger stamped across it in yellow lettering.
I guess this answers the question of what Tyler does for money if he’s not running sled tours through the summer. A lot of mushers work seasonal jobs, taking on as many hours as they can with fishing charter companies or other tourist-type work, or in construction, before they start their rigorous fall training schedule.
But no … “Over three million acres of park land in this state, and you have to work here,” I mutter under my breath.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Nothing.”
He frowns. “You were waving me down. Is there a problem?”