Mila’s parents. He seems close with all of them. I watch the boy who sits in a lawn chair by the firepit, pulling a brush through Tank’s fur.
“The kid is meticulous with detail. Way more than me. I’m the one who made that mistake.” Tyler nods toward Nala, the now-pregnant lead husky lapping at her water bowl. An unintentional breeding when Tyler marked her cycle down in the wrong column and left her and Tank alone together.
But he owned up to it right away, rather than blame the kid. He’s not one of those men who’s too full of pride to admit his errors.
Another appealing quality that I don’t want to know about.
“Didn’t you say you wanted to breed Tank, anyway?”
“Yeah, but not with her, and not at that time.” His eyebrows draw together with worry.
“So, what are you going to do, then? Sell the puppies?”
“Doubt it, but I don’t have to make any decisions now.” He shakes his head. “I’m getting phone calls from people who somehow got my number and letters in my mailbox from people who found my address. If I didn’t have that gate, I’d have people driving up here daily. Linda Cogsby is looking for a new swing dog. Some Sam guy needs a few team dogs. And remember that guy at the checkpoint? Gary something?”
“Gary Seymore. Yeah.”
“He called, wanting to know if I’d consider leasing some dogs so he could build a team to race the Iditarod himself. The guy couldn’t operate a damn coffee maker. As if I’d ever trust him with any of my dogs, if I had any to spare. I wouldn’t even loan him Pope for a five-mile Sunday tour.”
The mushers’ names are ringing alarms in my head. They’re the same people Harry mentioned a few weeks ago when he was complaining about interested people ghosting his calls.
I’m beginning to see where they’ve gone.
Right next door, as Harry has feared all along.
“For these puppies”—I point to Nala—“you’re either training them to race or selling them to someone who will. They need to run. It’s in their blood.” No matter what reservations I have about the bad apples in the industry, I’ve seen these mushing dogs leaping with wild excitement the second someone holds up a line, and howl with dramatic protest that only a husky can deliver when they realize they’re not going out that day.
“You’re right. I know you’re right. And my wife would want to know that her dogs are still out there running.” A wistful look touches Tyler’s face, and I can tell he’s drifted somewhere else.
Somewhere far away from me, to another life where he was someone’s husband and almost a father. I’m beginning to think Tyler spends a lot of time lingering with the dead. What must that do to a person?
“You bring the dogs into the barn on the very cold nights?” I ask, pulling him back to the land of the living.
He clears his throat. “Yeah, if it’s really cold, especially the ones with the shorter hair. I kept the paddocks so we can separate them into smaller groups to avoid fighting. Most of them are pretty good, but every once in a while, we have an unexpected issue. We found out the hard way that Bella and Simone can’t be together if Lasso is around, ever since they both had puppies with him.” Tyler waves a hand at the black and white husky that saunters over in front of us to lie down on his back and show his belly. “This is Pope. He’s decided he doesn’t want to be a sled dog anymore. He’ll run until he reaches twenty-four to twenty-six miles, and then he just stops.”
“That’s precise.” And listening to Tyler speak so casually about his dogs, as if they’re his children, makes me smile whether I want to or not.
“Every time. Shitty-ass sled dog, but the friendliest guy around. He’s three and basically retired now. He and Sleet don’t get along.”
“Sleet’s the swing dog under the tree?”
“Yeah. And he doesn’t like lazy sled dogs, which Pope is. This one’s good for chasing rabbits, eating more than his share, begging for belly scratches, and not much else.” Tyler leans down to smooth his hand over Pope’s thick midsection before pulling himself back up. “So, there’s your full tour of my kennel.” He folds his arms over his chest. “Anything you want me to change as the veterinarian on my payroll?” The tiny smirk tells me he knows I won’t find one thing wrong.
“Actually, yes. The heat lamp you have set up in the treatment and birthing room, put it in the corner farthest from the door.” It’s a good idea, but it’s also not critical, and yet I feel the need to poke holes in both Tyler’s setup and his ego.