Читать книгу: «Across A Thousand Miles»

Rebecca was in trouble

Mac was as sure of this as he’d ever been sure of anything. She was in terrible trouble somewhere up ahead.

Sled dog racing! he fumed. Whoever thought up such a ridiculous sport? “All right,” he bellowed to his team. “Get up.” His voice had an edge to it that he’d never used with his dogs before. They struggled valiantly against the ferocious wind and swirling snow.

Where the hell was the summit? They must be getting close. Mac looked ahead into the stormy darkness. Was that a sled in front of him? He reached out, and his hand connected with the solid wood of the driving bow. “Hey,” he shouted. “Rebecca?”

The top line of the sled bag ripped open in the fierce wind, and a man sat up. “Rebecca’s somewhere down below. She and her whole team got blown over. I don’t know how far they fell.”

Mac stared at the bottomless void. She could be anywhere along this slope or she could have tumbled clear to the bottom. How in God’s name would he ever find her in this whiteout?

He turned and plunged through the snow to the front of his team. He unhooked his lead dog from the gang line.

“Merlin, come!” he shouted over the howl of the wind. Then he turned his back on the dog and began a careful, step-by-step descent of the slope, panning his headlamp back and forth as he went.

He had to find Rebecca!

Dear Reader,

The Yukon Quest Sled Dog Race is without a doubt one of the toughest in the world—an epic journey covering one thousand miles of rugged wilderness terrain in temperatures that often reach minus sixty degrees Fahrenheit. It is the ultimate proving ground for mushers and their teams, and the cumulative effort of race volunteers, veterinarians, sponsors, handlers, families and friends. All of the characters in this story are fictional. I have taken a few liberties with both the race route and the rules, but have tried for the most part to give you, the reader, a sense of what it’s like to travel down a long trail behind a team of incredible canine athletes. And a hint of the camaraderie that can develop between the mushers themselves.

The history of the north country is written in the paw prints of the intrepid sled dogs who hauled freight, food, medicine and mail over thousands of miles of winter trails in some of the worst conditions imaginable, for the benefit of mankind. We owe them our esteem.

Nadia Nichols

Across a Thousand Miles
Nadia Nichols

www.millsandboon.co.uk

GLOSSARY OF MUSHING TERMINOLOGY

ALL RIGHT!	Command for dogs to get up and go. HIKE! may also be used.
BASKET	The main part of the sled that sits over the runners. Used to carry gear, injured dogs, etc. Also called the BED.
BOOTIES	Socks worn by dogs to protect paws against ice. Made from polar fleece and other high-tech material. Secured with Belcor strips.
BRAKE	Pivoting metal bar with two prongs that is attached between the stanchions at the rear of the BED. Musher stands on bar, which drives points into the snow and stops the sled.
BRUSHBOW	Acts like a bumper or deflector. Curved piece protrudes from front of sled and prevents damage to sled.
BUNNY BOOTS	The military version of PACK BOOTS. White rubber tops and bottoms.
DOG TRUCK	Used to transport dogs. Most common is a wooden structure built onto the bed of the truck with individual sections for each dog or pair of dogs.
DRIVING BOW	Sled handle with which the MUSHER steers the sled. Also called the HANDLE BOW or DRIVER’S BOW.
DROPPED DOGS	Any dog that cannot continue may be dropped at an official checkpoint or at an assigned dog-drop location.
FOOD DROPS	Food and equipment, bagged in burlap or poly bags and shipped ahead to checkpoints. Bags cannot exceed sixty pounds. Straw (for dog bedding) must also be shipped ahead.
GANGLINE	The main line. Dogs and sled are attached to this. May also be referred to as TOWLINE.
GEE!	Command for leaders to turn right.
HARNESS	Webbed material, fits dogs snugly. TUGLINE and NECKLINE are attached to this.
HAW!	Command for leaders to turn left.
LEAD DOG	Leader of the team. Intelligence and drive are important qualities. Teams can have one or two LEAD DOGS.
MUSHER	A person who drives a sled dog team.
NECKLINE	Short line—no more than twelve inches— attached to HARNESS and GANGLINE. Keeps dogs in place.
ON BY!	Command to go by a potential distraction such as another team.
PACK BOOTS	Felt-lined insulated boots. Usually rubber soled with leather or Cordura uppers.
PEDALING	Standing with one foot on the sled runner while pushing against the snow with the other.
POINT DOGS	These dogs run behind the LEAD DOGS. Sometimes called SWING DOGS.
RUNNERS	The two skilike “feet” that slide along the snow. Usually made of wood and covered in plastic.
SAFETY LINE	Extra line from sled to GANGLINE
SNOW HOOK	Double-pronged metal hook. Can be pushed into the snow and used as an anchor to halt the dogs for short periods of time without tethering them.
SNUB LINE	Attached to the end of the GANGLINE. Can be tied to an object (tree) to hold the dogs when the snow is too soft to use SNOW HOOK.
STANCHIONS	The upright pieces that form the framework of the sled. They hold the runners to the rest of the sled.
SWING DOGS	Either the same as POINT DOGS or may refer to the two dogs running between the POINT DOGS and the WHEEL DOGS.
TEAM DOGS	Refers to all dogs other than LEAD DOGS, POINT DOGS, SWING DOGS and WHEEL DOGS.
TUGLINE	Connects the dog’s harness to GANGLINE. WHEEL DOGS The two dogs running directly in front of the sled.
WHOA!	Command to stop the team.

To my beloved sled dogs, past and present, my heroes and my best friends, who have taken me on some of the greatest adventures of my life and who have always brought me safely home.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

Now promise made as a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code…

Robert Service,

from The Cremation of Sam McGee

THE MAN WHO DROVE his truck up Rebecca Reed’s rutted dirt drive was a stranger, and her dogs let her know it long before she stepped out of the arctic entry to her small cabin and onto the front porch. She shrugged into her parka which had been hanging in the small pre-entry room as she watched his approach. The afternoon was chilly in spite of the sunlight, and the limbs of the aspen and willow were silvery and bare. Ravens were calling along the river and the wind played a lonesome song through the spruce behind the cabin. It was late autumn and the taste of snow was in the air.

He was tall. She could see that quite clearly as he climbed out of his truck. Even if his truck—with the dog box bolted to its rusting bed—hadn’t given him away, his clothing would have. “Uh-oh. Another crazy dog driver,” she commented to Tuffy, the small black-and-tan Alaskan husky who had followed her onto the porch. In her prime, Tuffy had been Bruce’s favorite lead dog, but she was old now, her muzzle graying, her movements stiff, and her eyes a bit cloudy. “I’ll lay odds he’s after a load of dog food and he’ll want it real cheap,” Rebecca said. “But how on earth did he get past my truck?” Tuffy looked at her quizzically and flagged her tail.

The stranger was dressed like a typical musher, and as he walked up the path toward the cabin, he paused for a moment to brush the worst of the mud off his drab-colored parka. His clothes were dog-eared, dog-chewed and dog-dirty. His insulated boots were patched with rubberized tool dip, his tawny shock of hair needed trimming, he was at least two days unshaven, and heaven only knew when he’d last had a decent bath. A bush dweller and a musher. A dangerous combination. He walked to the foot of the porch steps and paused there, looking up at her. “Hello,” he said with a nod and the faintest of grins. “Your truck was blocking the road and I moved it. Hope you don’t mind, but the hood was left up as if something was wrong so I took a quick look.”

“I went out to get the mail yesterday and it stalled on me,” Rebecca explained. “The battery went dead, but it shouldn’t have. It’s fairly new.”

“Well, your battery was fine, but the ground-wire connection was loose. I tightened that up, and she started like a champ, so I moved her down the drive a ways into that little pullover near the blowdown. I’ll drive her in for you if you like.”

Rebecca was taken aback. “No, thank you. I’ll walk out and drive back. Thank you very much for fixing it. My wallet’s inside. Hold on a moment, I’ll get it.”

He grinned and shook his head. “No, you won’t. I was glad to help and that was a real easy fix. The reason I’m here is that Fred Turner told me you sold dog food. He said you had the best prices in the Territory, so I thought I’d swing by your kennel on my way into Dawson.”

“I do sell dog food,” Rebecca said warily. “But it’s good dog food. I don’t sell the cheap stuff.”

“Good dog food’s what I’m looking for,” he said. He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced around her yard. “You’ve got quite a few dogs yourself,” he said.

“Forty,” she said.

“Forty!” He glanced up at her, and she noticed that his eyes were exceptionally clear and bright, a shade of gray that hinted at blue or green, she couldn’t tell which. “My name’s Bill MacKenzie. Most folks call me Mac.”

“Rebecca Reed,” she said, with a curt nod. “How much food were you looking to buy?”

“Well, I only keep fourteen dogs myself, and I have plenty of chum salmon to carry them through the winter. I was thinking along the lines of forty bags, if you had that much to spare. That should see me through till spring.”

“I could sell you that much food,” Rebecca said, “but that truck of yours is only a half-ton, and it isn’t even four-wheel drive. I doubt it could haul that heavy a load.”

“Well, I know it doesn’t look like much,” Mac admitted. “But it’s a tough truck, sure enough. She’ll carry a ton of food, easy, four-wheel drive or no.”

“How far do you have to take it?”

“Thirty miles or so. Not far. Hell, if it would just hurry up and snow, I could ferry the food back with my dog team. It’d be good training for them.”

Rebecca smiled faintly. “It’ll snow soon enough. You said you were on your way to Dawson, so I guess you’ll be wanting to pick the food up on your way back to wherever it is you live?”

Mac nodded. “That’d be great. I’m bringing a dog to the veterinarian for a checkup. She’s a good dog but she’s been off her feed for nearly a week. My appointment isn’t until four, so I thought I’d spend the night in town and get an early start tomorrow. I could be here by eight-thirty, if that’s all right with you.”

Rebecca shrugged. “Fine by me. I suppose if Fred Turner told you I sold dog food, he probably also told you that I don’t extend credit. My husband started this business five years ago and he gave credit to every Tom, Dick, and Harry that came up the trail. Couldn’t say no to anyone. When he died he left me in an awful mess. I’ll sell you however much dog food you need, but you’ll pay cash at pickup, same as everybody else. Twenty-five dollars a bag.” Rebecca narrowed her eyes as she spoke, aware that her words were hard and businesslike, and aware, too, that MacKenzie probably didn’t have two dimes to rub together. Probably didn’t even carry a checkbook or a credit card.

“I understand,” Mac said, nodding. “That’s good business.” He patted the flat, frayed pocket of his parka and grinned again. “Not to worry about my finances,” he assured her. “I’ve got me a good little jag of cash, what with all the furs I’ve sold. I could pay you right now if you like.”

“You can pay at pickup,” Rebecca said. “You’re a trapper?”

“I run a trapline up along Flat Creek.”

“Really.” Rebecca frowned. “How long have you been living out there?”

Mac paused, his eyes suddenly intent on searching the ground at his feet. The color in his windburned cheeks deepened. “Well, not that long,” he admitted. “Since early August. Actually my brother’s the trapper and they were his furs, but he’s gone to Fairbanks to finish his degree at the University of Alaska. He asked me if I’d like to spend a winter in the Yukon, taking care of his dogs and running his trapline. The timing was perfect, so here I am.” Mac grinned again, raising his eyes to hers. “They’re real good dogs. He ran the Yukon Quest with them last year and finished third. He told me to sell the furs and buy dog food for them.”

“Ah,” Rebecca said. “You’re Brian MacKenzie’s brother.”

“Yes. You know him?”

“He and my husband were friends.”

Mac nodded. “Well, he wants me to run his dogs this winter, so I expect I will. There’s not much to it, really. He gave me a some lessons before he left, and I’ve been working with the dogs for a few months now. We should be able to do really well at some of these races. I’d kind of like to win the Percy DeWolf. It’s only 210 miles and those dogs of my brother’s will eat that up like it was nothing.”

“Had you ever driven a dog team before you came out here?” Rebecca asked.

“Nope. But I’m a quick study and my brother’s a good teacher. What about you? Are you planning to run any races this season?”

Rebecca shrugged again. “Depends on the training, I guess, and my work schedule.” She straightened up and zipped her parka. “You’d better get headed for Dawson. It’ll be pitch-dark soon, and I’ve still got chores to do.”

“Need any help? I could give you a ride out to your truck,” he offered.

“No, thanks. I can manage and I like the walk.” She started to turn away and then paused. “Be careful of that soft spot in the drive just before you get to the main road. Keep to the left of the deep ruts and you should be okay.”

Rebecca watched him turn and walk back toward his truck. Her eyes narrowed speculatively. “Early thirties,” she said to Tuffy, who had remained at her side. “See the way he walks? Definitely military. I should have guessed he was Brian’s big brother when he told me his name.” She laughed softly, the first time she’d laughed in forever. “Win the Percy DeWolf? He’s awfully arrogant, wouldn’t you say, Tuffy, for a cheechako who probably doesn’t know a dog harness from a doghouse!” Tuffy, as always, cheerfully agreed.

MacKenzie’s truck started hard, with much grinding and groaning. It took several tries for him to turn around in Rebecca’s yard, backing up into the irregular gaps between the spruce trees and the dog barn, and the dog yard fence and the cabin porch. At length, with a burst of black exhaust, he was gone, and the sound of the old truck’s engine faded into silence.

Rebecca gazed beyond her late husband’s dog yard, at the wall of rugged mountains that made up the Dawson Range. Bruce Reed, she thought, I miss you like crazy and I hate you for leaving me here with a pack of forty sled dogs to look after and a business that’s still in the red….

Her eyes stung with tears, and a sudden chill made her wrap her arms around herself as she stood on the cabin porch. Tuffy leaned her small but solid weight against Rebecca’s leg. Rebecca sniffed and let one hand drop to stroke the dog’s head. “I don’t hate him, Tuffy,” she said softly. “I’m just mad at him, that’s all. I want him back and he won’t come, but that’s not really his fault, is it?”

She might have stood there feeling sorry for herself indefinitely, but there were chores to do. There were dogs to feed, a wood box to fill, water to haul and, finally, her own supper to cook. Tomorrow she had sled dogs to train, more chores to do, more wood and water to haul, and the guest cabin needed a good cleaning in preparation for the steady stream of clients that would inhabit it once the snow came, some flying in from as faraway as Japan to spend a week in the Yukon behind a team of dogs. Bruce’s outfitting business, now in its fifth year, had gotten off to a slow start, but if Rebecca’s figures were correct, this year it would actually turn a profit. Nearly all of the available dates were filled with clients seeking a northern adventure. More than half of them were repeats. Between the food sales, the guided trips, and the small sums she earned writing a weekly column for a Whitehorse newspaper, Rebecca, without her husband, was managing to scrape by.

As she mixed the dog food in the big galvanized washtubs, three of them set side to shoulder inside the cabin door, she caught herself thinking about Bill MacKenzie. “He’ll never make it,” she said to Tuffy as she mixed the ground meat into the kibble and added copious quantities of warm water from the huge kettles steaming atop the woodstove. “He’ll never last out the winter in Brian’s shack up on the Flat. He may think he’s Jeremiah Johnson, but he doesn’t have a clue. This country will eat him up.” She shook her head and laughed for the second time that day. “Ex-military. He probably has a hard time tying his bootlaces without a drill sergeant instructing him.” She scooped the warm, soupy mix of meat, kibble, fat, vitamins and water into five-gallon buckets, hoisted two of them with hands that were callused and arms that were necessarily strong. She pushed the door open with a practiced kick of her booted toe, did likewise to the door from the arctic entry and emerged from the cabin to the wolflike chorus of forty huskies howling for their dinner.

Halfway through her chores she paused for a moment, pushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead with the back of her wrist and shook her head. “Boy, I feel kind of sorry for his dogs.”

“WE’LL NEED TO TAKE X rays to see what’s going on,” the veterinarian said, removing his stethoscope and laying it on the side table. “From what you’re telling me and from what I’m hearing inside her, it sounds like some sort of intestinal obstruction. Does she eat rocks?”

“Rocks?” Mac stared down at the small sled dog that he steadied in his arms. “Why would she do that?”

The veterinarian laughed. “You’d be amazed at the things we find in a sled dog’s intestines. Rocks are the most common. They start out playing with them and then for some unfathomable reason they swallow them.”

“Rocks,” Mac said. He shook his head. “I guess there’s a lot I need to learn about these dogs. Okay, so what happens now?”

“We’ll knock her out, take some pictures and if there’s an obstruction, we’ll go ahead and surgically remove it. She’ll have to stay overnight for observation, and I’d like to get some IV hydration into her.”

“And if you don’t find anything?”

“I’ll do some blood work and we’ll take it from there. The other option is to keep dosing her with mineral oil the way you’ve been doing and hope the obstruction works its way through. But she’s pretty dehydrated right now and she’s lost a lot of condition. There’s also the possibility of a rupture of the intestine, which would cause massive infection. It’s up to you. If you want to wait a little longer…”

Mac shook his head. “Go ahead and do whatever needs to be done. I don’t want to take any chances with her. Can I call here tonight and find out how she’s doing?”

“We should know how we’re going to proceed as soon as we see what the problem is. If you leave a number where you can be reached, I’ll give you a call.”

“I’m staying at the Eldorado,” Mac said. He stroked the dog’s head one final time before leaving her to the vet. “You’re a good girl, Callie,” he said. “You’ll feel better soon.” Sick as she was, Callie wagged her tail at his words and tried to follow him out of the examination room, which made him feel worse than ever. If someone had told him three months ago that he would be so attached to a pack of sled dogs, he would have laughed in disbelief, but abandoning Callie at the veterinarian’s launched him into a state of high anxiety.

He paced the lobby at the Eldorado for nearly an hour before the phone call came. The X rays showed a large obstruction, probably a rock. They were commencing surgery and would phone again to let him know how things went. Another ninety anxious minutes later, he got word that the operation had been successful and that Callie was fine. “That rock was as big as a hen’s egg,” the vet said. “I saved it for you.”

Mac’s relief was followed by intense hunger. He ate a huge and satisfying meal, then had a couple of cold beers while watching some of the locals shoot pool in the barroom. His thoughts kept returning to Rebecca Reed. Try as he might, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Fred Turner was a taciturn old cuss, but he’d divulged a good deal about her when he’d stopped at Mac’s cabin for a visit two weeks back. “Terrible sad story,” Fred had said, shaking his head and blinking the sting of a large swallow of Jack Daniel’s from his eyes. “She came here with her husband, oh, must be five, six years ago. Quiet little thing. Shy. Hard worker, though. Worked right alongside her man, never shirked. Good with the dogs, too. She helped Bruce train, ran some races herself and did real well.

“Bruce, he ran the long races. The Iditarod and the Yukon Quest. Those are thousand-mile races. Tough races. Rebecca ran some of the shorter ones. Two, three hundred milers like the Fireplug, the Copper Basin, the Percy DeWolf. They started up a business giving tours by dog team and selling dog food. Best prices in the Territory on dog food. And then Bruce went and got himself killed. Hit a moose with his truck coming back from a supply trip to Whitehorse. We all thought she’d pack up and leave, but by God she’s stuck it out, all by herself. Folks say she hasn’t smiled once since Bruce died, and she’s got no family to turn to, just a mother back East who thinks she’s crazy livin’ way out here in the wilderness.”

Mac leaned his elbows on the bar and cradled the beer bottle between his palms. Fred hadn’t mentioned that Rebecca Reed was an arrestingly beautiful woman. Long, dark hair plaited in a thick braid, high forehead, wide-set blue eyes, straight nose, expressive mouth that wanted to smile but wouldn’t, and a determined chin with a little dimple in it. The thought of her living in that cabin all by herself, grieving for her husband, disturbed him more than he cared to admit. Divorced for several months, his own experiences with women had led him to conclude that most of them were fickle. Loyalty simply did not abide in them. Yet how could he explain this woman living in voluntary seclusion, this young widow who hadn’t smiled since her husband died? And might things have turned out differently for him in that military courtroom if he’d had the love and support of a wife like Rebecca? Would he have fought harder for his exoneration?

Mac sighed. Taking care of forty dogs must be a hell of a lot of work for a woman! Caring for his brother’s dogs turned him inside out, and getting away from them for just one day was more of a vacation than a three-week holiday used to be. How on earth did she manage all by herself?

“Hey, mister.” A man leaned on the bar beside him, olive-drab wool cap with the ear flaps turned up, windburned complexion, black eyes, red-and-black-plaid flannel shirt, green wool pants with bright orange suspenders. “Barkeep tells me you play a mean game of pool and you’re looking for some action.”

Mac finished his beer and straightened. “Well, I don’t know how mean it is, but it’s pretty good, I guess.”

“Good enough to place a bet on?”

“Maybe.” Mac followed the woodsman to the pool table, thinking smugly, Ha! Easy money!

Six hours later he opened his eyes and stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was or why he felt so awful. Pool… He’d played pool with a guy named Joe Redshirt, and Joe played a pretty mean game of pool himself. Whiskey. Joe had bought him several shots over the course of the evening. One of the last coherent memories Mac had was of an easy rail shot he’d pooched, and Joe’s deadpan voice drawling, “Don’t worry, son, I couldn’t make those shots when I was young, either.”

Mac closed his eyes, moaned, then opened them again, realization flooding through him. “Dammit!” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, not overly surprised to find himself fully clothed. He held on to the nightstand for a moment until his legs steadied beneath him, then staggered to the chair. His fingers dug into the frayed pockets of his parka with frantic movements, and he knew a moment of wild relief when he drew forth the carefully folded envelope that held the dog-food money. He spilled the bills out onto the coverlet and counted them. Sweat beaded his brow. He counted again, as if more might appear the second time around then sank onto the edge of the bed. By nature he was neither a gambler nor a heavy drinker, but betting on a game of pool had seemed like such an easy way to win money to help pay both the vet and the hotel charges, and Joe Redshirt had kept handing him those shots of whiskey…

…and somehow Mac had gambled away half his dog-food money.

One hot shower and thirty minutes later, he was standing in the vet’s office counting those same bills again. Then he pushed all but sixty dollars toward the receptionist. She counted it primly before writing him out a receipt. “I’ll get Callie for you now,” she said, and disappeared into the back room. Mac stared at the remaining bills in his hand with a feeling of doom. “Oh, God,” he said to the empty room. “I’m flat broke.”

When he finally got Callie comfortably ensconced in the passenger seat of his old truck, he was stunned to realize that it was nearly 10 a.m. He had an early-morning appointment to pick up nearly a ton of dog food from a beautiful widow named Rebecca Reed, who lived about an hour outside of Dawson…and who didn’t sell dog food on credit.

“Oh, God,” he said again, putting the truck in gear and heading down the Klondike Highway. “I’m a dead man.”

“YOU’RE LATE! Rebecca said, hands on her hips. I could have trained three teams of dogs in the amount of time I’ve spent waiting around for you.”

A stiff wind bent the tops of the spruce, and the overcast sky gave off an ominous thundering. “I’m sorry,” Mac said. He stood at the foot of the porch steps looking about as apologetic as she’d ever seen a man look. Those broad military shoulders were hunched, and his hands were shoved deep into his parka pockets. His tawny hair was tousled, though clean and freshly trimmed, and he had obviously shaved, revealing more clearly the strong, masculine planes of cheekbone and chin, but his eyes mirrored his abject guilt.

“Well, I’m not going to help you load the dog food. That’s your job. Back your truck up to that door on the end of the dog barn. Your food is on pallets stacked to the right of the door. Forty bags, though I seriously doubt your truck will take the load.”

He nodded again, looked over his shoulder at the old rusted truck, then dropped his gaze to the toes of his worn-out pack boots. He stood silently at the foot of the cabin steps until Rebecca felt a knot forming in the pit of her stomach.

“What is it?” she said.

He sighed and dug his hands deeper into his parka pockets. He lifted his shoulders and let them fall. A snowflake fluttered down from the leaden sky and brushed over his shoulder unseen. “Well, the thing is, I’m a little short of cash,” he said in a low voice, speaking to the ground at his feet. “The vet bill turned out to be higher than I expected. You see, Callie ate this big rock…” He raised his eyes and pulled one hand out of his pocket, fingers unfolding to reveal the smooth egg-shaped stone cradled within.